ELQPEMEN1 

ALEXANDER  HARVE1 


ia 


SHELLEY'S  ELOPEMENT 


By  ALEXANDER  HARVEY 
WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

A  Study  of  the  Achievement 
of  a  Literary  Artist 


WVU, 


SHELLEY'S  ELOPEMENT 

A  STUDY  OF  THE  MOST  ROMANTIC 
EPISODE    IN    LITERARY    HISTORY 

BY  ALEXANDER  HARVEY 


NEW  YORK  ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF  MCMXVIII 


THE 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published  September  1918 


FKTNTED    IN    TH*    UNTTBD    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


TO 
ROBERT  ALLERTON     PARKER 


2024369 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     Love  or  Marriage  i 

II     The  Stepmother  15 

III  Poet  and  Philosopher  5 1 

IV  The  Romantic  79 
V     Mary  Takes  a  Hand  91 

VI     The  Daughter  of  Mary  Wollstone- 
craft   and   the   Wife    of   William 

Godwin  113 

VII     The  Child  of  Song  129 

VIII     The  Loves  of  the  Poet  Shelley  171 

IX     The  Infatuation  of  Jefferson  Hogg  185 

X    The  Deep  One  191 

XI     Recrimination  209 

XII     A  Pard-Like  Spirit  225 

XIII     The  Event  249 

Characters  Involved  in  Shelley's  Elopement  265 


I 

LOVE  OR  MARRIAGE? 

iHEN   you   mean   to   elope   with   a 
married  man1?" 

Mary  Godwin  fairly  hissed  the 
words.  Her  pale  young  face  took  on  unwonted 
colour.  Her  deep  grey  eyes  seemed  afire. 

Fanny  started  up  from  the  broken  old  chair. 
She  confronted  her  tormentor  with  a  boldness  of 
which  her  instinctive  timidity  made  her  for  the 
most  part  incapable. 

"I  have  never  said  so,  Mary." 

Fanny's  impulse  to  retort  hotly  found  no  other 
outlet  than  these  words — these  words  and  a  deep 
flush  in  her  cheeks.  This  made  its  way  slowly 
to  the  roots  of  her  long  and  plentiful  black  hair. 

Fanny's  hair  comprised  her  solitary  pretension 


Shelley's 


to  beauty.  It  coiled  itself  massively  at  the  nape 
of  a  sallow  neck  which,  like  her  countenance,  be- 
trayed the  past  ravages  of  small-pox.  Her  long 
face  pointed  itself  more  markedly  than  might 
otherwise  have  been  the  case  owing  to  the  unusual 
length  of  her  chin.  The  lips  of  this  girl  were 
wide  and  full.  The  nose  was  too  long  and  too 
sallow.  The  ears,  clinging  closely  to  the  head, 
were  hidden  by  the  plentiful  hair.  A  copper  tint 
in  the  sallow  complexion  of  the  girl  suggested 
the  American  Indian. 

Fanny's  dark  eyes,  blazing  for  the  moment, 
cowed  even  so  determined  a  nature  as  that  of  Mary 
Godwin.  There  ensued  between  these  half-sisters 
a  moment  of  the  tensest  silence.  They  faced  one 
another  with  the  feelings  of  two  gladiators.  At 
last,  Fanny,  the  meek  spirit,  succumbed  to  the 
bolder  soul. 

"Mary!" 

The  name  became  a  sigh.  In  another  moment 
these  two  had  embraced.  Fanny  laid  her  head 
upon  the  shoulder  of  Mary  and  wept. 

"You  love  him.     I  can  see  that." 

I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead! 
L       O,  weep  for  Adonais!  though  our  tears 


Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head !  *\ 

And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years  J 

Fanny  raised  her  head.  Confession  was  writ- 
ten in  her  sallow  face. 

"Bysshe  has  been  very  good  to  me — " 

She  was  cut  short. 

"Bysshe !"  echoed  Mary.  Her  tone  was  one  of 
horror  and  surprise  blended.  "So  that  is  the  way 
in  which  you  refer  to  Mr.  Shelley.  And  does  he 
call  you  Fanny?" 

"We  have  known  each  other  a  very  long  time." 

Fanny  faltered  the  words.  The  extreme  plain- 
ness of  her  face  seemed  to  catch  something  of  the 
charm  she  too  evidently  felt  in  the  mere  memory 
of  her  intercourse  with  Shelley.  Mary's  pretty 
countenance  wore  an  expression  of  almost  ma- 
tronly severity.  There  was  scorn  in  her  deep 
grey  eyes. 

"It  matters  not,  Fanny,  how  long  you  have 
known  this  Mr.  Shelley.  He  has  a  wife.  When 
you  let  a  married  man  make  love  to  you — " 

Until  this  was  said,  Fanny  had  remained  upon 
the  ancient  chair  in  which  she  collapsed  after 
weeping  upon  Mary's  shoulder.  She  now  stood 
up.  Her  pitted  face  was  almost  flushed. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Bysshe — Mr.  Shelley  has  never  made  love  to 
me." 

Mary  laughed  aloud. 

"Mr.  Shelley  is  too  much  of  a  poet  not  to  make 
love  to  every  woman  he  meets,"  she  retorted. 
"Has  he  never  kissed  you?" 

"He  and  his  wife  have  both  kissed  me." 

"That  was  before  they  quarrelled." 

There  was  something  very  like  a  sneer  upon 
Mary's  thin  and  finely  chiselled  lips.  It  could 
not  conquer  the  rare  sweetness  of  Fanny's  expres- 
sion. The  spirituality  of  her  liquid  eyes,  swim- 
ming in  the  depths  of  their  profound  colour,  dis- 
armed all  Mary's  criticism.  Fanny's  smile,  part- 
ing lips  too  wide,  was  like  a  gleam  of  colour 
through  shaded  forest  trees.  The  perfection  of 
Fanny's  manner  was  completed  by  her  voice.  It 
was  a  blend  of  tones,  giving  utterance  to  every 
beautiful  and  tender  sentiment  with  no  necessity 
for  framing  sentences  to  tell  what  might  be  in  her 
mind. 

This  young  woman,  who  had  entered  her 
twentieth  year,  was  athletic  in  build  for  one  of 

To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
4       And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow!     Say:  "With  me 


Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 


her  sex.  She  seemed  all  the  taller  owing  to  the 
craziness  of  the  low  attic  ceiling  over  her  head.  It 
descended  in  places  until  she  could  have  touched 
it  by  raising  a  shoulder.  Fanny's  surroundings 
were  bare  and  mean.  The  roped  bed  with  its 
gaping  straw  mattress  and  one  odd  blanket  sug- 
gested anything  but  repose.  There  was  a  cracked 
pitcher  on  a  washstand  in  a  corner.  The  table 
had  lost  a  leg.  The  chair  beside  the  bed  was 
almost  without  a  back.  Everything  was  spot- 
lessly clean.  Two  huge  books — one  a  Bible — lay 
on  the  floor  beside  the  bed. 

"The  trash  this  Mr.  Shelley  writes — you  spend 
much  of  your  time  poring  over  it,  I  am  told," 
ran  on  Mary.  "You  have  taken  him  very  seri- 
ously, as  he  takes  himself." 

She  lifted  a  thin  volume  from  the  rickety  table 
beside  the  window.  Fanny  stepped  over  from 
the  bed.  Mary  fled  into  a  corner.  She  had 
divined  the  purpose  of  her  half-sister. 

"I  mean  to  look  at  it,  Fanny.  Don't  provoke 
me." 

The  elder  girl  resumed  her  seat  upon  the  bed, 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


throwing  her  apron  over  her  face.  Mary  laughed 
again. 

"You're  not  in  love  with  Shelley,  oh  no !"  she 
mocked.  "You  merely  give  your  nights  to  his 
trashy  poetry.  No  wonder  your  candle  is  always 
burned  down  to  the  socket." 

Fanny  uncovered  her  face. 

"It  isn't  trash !"  she  retorted  with  spirit.  "You 
are  too  young  to  understand  such  a  thing  as  Queen 
Mab." 

"So  this  is  Queen  Mab,  is  it*?"  said  Mary,  fin- 
gering the  thin  volume  in  boards.  "I've  heard  of 
that  poem.  Pa  has  read  it.  He  told  me  this 
Mr.  Shelley  has  a  false  taste  in  poetry.  He  loves 
a  perpetual  sparkle  and  glitter,  Pa  says,  such  as 
are  to  be  found  in  Southey." 

The  full  and  rich  tones  in  which  the  positive 
and  affirmative  Mary  uttered  her  protest  afforded 
the  most  striking  of  contrasts  with  the  timid  and 
suppressed  accents  of  Fanny.  The  difference  in 
their  voices  reflected  a  marked  disparity  in  their 
temperaments.  Where  the  dusky  Fanny  hesi- 
tated and  shrank,  the  paler  Mary  walked  boldly. 

6       An  echo  and  a  light  unto 
eternity!" 


Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay,  w 

When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  flies  / 

The  plainness  of  Fanny  seemed  the  greater  just 
now  because  of  the  radiant  prettiness  of  Mary. 
Fanny  was  tall.  Mary,  without  being  too  short, 
was  what  the  French  call  petite.  The  features 
of  the  brunette  had  gentleness  and  calm  stamped 
upon  every  lineament.  Mary  seemed  perpetually 
a-flutter.  If  she  sat  down,  she  tapped  one  little 
foot  upon  the  floor.  Fanny  was  all  repose.  The 
gestures  of  Mary  were  incessant.  All  that  Fanny 
said  was  spoken  slowly  and  in  hesitating  accents. 
Mary  talked  freely,  decidedly.  This  difference 
in  characters  was  emphasized  by  a  difference  in 
ages.  Fanny,  it  has  been  said,  had  attained  her 
twentieth  year.  Mary  was  scarcely  seventeen. 

"Trash !"  she  cried  at  last,  flinging  the  volume 
across  the  room.  "This  Bysshe  Shelley  of  yours 
is  no  poet  and  I  shall  tell  him  so." 

Fanny,  her  dusky  face  aglow,  ran  across  the 
attic  floor  to  rescue  the  precious  verses.  She  re- 
stored the  slim  volume  to  its  place  upon  her 
lamed  table,  whither  Mary  herself  had  now  re- 
paired to  finger  one  or  two  more  specimens  of 
Shelley's  genius. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Zastrozzi,"  read  out  Mary.  "A  romance. 
By  P.  B.  S.  Just  what  does  the  '£'  stand  for? 
Patrick?" 

"Percy." 

"Percy  Bysshe  Shelley!"  echoed  Mary.  Her 
accents  were  as  high  as  they  were  scornful.  "I 
declare  you  have  his  name  pat  enough.  And  see ! 
Every  one  of  these  things  has  your  name  in  it." 

It  was  true.  One  pamphlet,  entitled:  "An 
Address  to  the  Irish  People,"  was  inscribed  to 
"Miss  Fanny  Godwin"  with  "the  homage  of  the 
author  her  humble  admirer  and  friend."  Mary 
read  these  words  aloud  and  then  burst  into  a  peal 
of  laughter. 

"Dearest!"  cried  Fanny.     "You  are  unkind." 

Mary  kissed  her  half-sister  once  more. 

"I  spoke  only  for  your  good  just  now,  Fanny. 
I  am  sure  you  know  as  much." 

"Perhaps  I  am — too  much — " 

She  hesitated.     Mary  supplied  the  word. 

"Interested." 

"Yes.     Mr.  Shelley  is  very  interesting." 

A  smile  revealed  the  even  rows  of  Mary's  teeth. 


8 


In  darkness?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died?    With  veiled  eyes, 


'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 

She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured  breath, 


"His  wife  doesn't  seem  to  find  him  interesting. 
She  spends  very  little  of  her  time  with  him." 

"She  does  not  understand  a  nature  like  his." 

Mary  tossed  her  head. 

"That's  what  they  all  say!"  she  ejaculated. 
She  had  resumed  her  first  mockery  of  tone. 
"Why  doesn't  he  try  to  make  her  understand 
him?" 

"He's  a  poet." 

Mary  laughed  so  merrily  that  Fanny  had  at  last 
to  join  in. 

"These  Shelleys  have  had  another  quarrel," 
Mary  observed,  more  gravely.  "I  do  hope  it  was 
not  on  your  account." 

"Mary!" 

The  reply  of  that  young  lady,  whatever  it 
might  have  been,  was  anticipated  by  the  collision 
of  her  shapely  brow  with  the  ceiling.  She  had 
incautiously  advanced  too  near  that  portion  of 
the  ancient  attic  which  formed  the  support  of  the 
roof.  Lifting  her  head  too  suddenly  in  her  access 
of  disdain  at  Shelley,  it  came  into  smart  con- 
tact with  the  edge  of  a  heavy  beam.  For  a  mo- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


ment  she  stood  stunned.  Fanny  rushed  over  to 
Mary's  side. 

"Poor  dear!"  she  said,  tenderly,  placing  a  hand 
upon  her  sister's  brow. 

A  lump  had  already  formed  upon  the  spotless 
whiteness  of  the  skin  of  Mary's  temple.  Fanny 
kissed  the  place.  Luckily,  the  abundant  hair  on 
Mary's  head  had  saved  her  from  the  worst  conse- 
quences of  this  accident.  She  hid  her  face  against 
Fanny's  bosom. 

"Upon  my  word,  Fanny !"  she  cried  penitently, 
"you  are  so  kind.  I  hope  I  didn't  wound  your 
feelings." 

Fanny's  reply  was  another  kiss.  The  lips  of 
the  fair  and  lovely  Mary  were  pressed  fervidly 
against  the  heavier  mouth  of  the  dark  girl.  For 
a  moment  they  stood  entwined. 

"What  makes  you  say  such  things,  Mary?" 

"Haven't  you  been  a  frequent  visitor  of  theirs? 
Hasn't  he  written  you  letters?" 

Fanny  sank  upon  her  bed. 

"I  shall  never  write  him  again,"  she  said. 

Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies 
I  O       With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  beneath, 


He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  j   -r 

bulk  of  death.  *    A 


"You  will  do  wisely,  Fanny.  And  I  wouldn't 
encourage  his  visits,  either." 

Once  more  Fanny  looked  up,  quickly,  indigna- 
tion expressing  itself  upon  every  swarthy  feature. 

"  He  doesn't  come  to  see  me,  Mary.  He  comes 
here  only  to  help  poor  Pa." 

It  was  Mary's  turn  to  look  indignant. 

"What  nonsense !  Pa  needs  no  help  that  Mr. 
Shelley  can  give." 

Fanny  sighed  and  remained  for  a  moment  con- 
templating the  great  hole  in  the  carpet  on  the 
floor.  Above  their  heads  the  rain  was  beating 
heavily  upon  the  roof.  Fanny  was  the  first  to 
break  the  silence. 

"Mr.  Shelley  has  promised  to  advance  Pa  a 
thousand  pounds." 

Into  the  deep  grey  eyes  of  the  pretty  Mary 
there  flashed  a  look  of  amazement  so  blank  that 
Fanny's  face  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"We  have  had  much  trouble  while  you  were 
away  in  Scotland,  Mary." 

"Then  you  should  have  written  me.     I  am 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


sure  Pa's  old  friend,  Mr.  Baxter,  would  have 
helped." 

Her  musical  voice  was  positive.  She  even 
stamped  a  pretty  foot.  But  Fanny  shook  her  head 
with  a  sigh. 

"Mr.  Baxter  has  already  helped  as  much  as  he 
could.  He  wrote  last  month  from  Edinburgh  to 
say  that  his  last  penny  was  at  the  service  of  Mr. 
William  Godwin.  Mr.  Shelley  heard  of  it  and 
offered  himself  to  raise  all  the  money  that  is 
needed." 

Mary  was  reduced  to  a  temporary  silence  by  the 
shock  of  this  intelligence.  She  began  to  uncoil 
the  masses  of  her  auburn  hair — a  sure  indication 
of  some  uneasiness  of  mind.  Fanny  watched  the 
unfolding  of  the  long  tresses  without  proffering  a 
word.  She  had  gone  to  the  washstand  where, 
steeping  her  apron  in  the  water  of  the  cracked 
pitcher,  she  contrived  a  cold  compress.  With  this 
she  mopped  the  lump  on  Mary's  brow. 

"I  am  surprised,  Fanny,  you  did  not  let  me 
know  the  truth.  Pa  in  straits  and  I  not  told  of  it ! 
But  why  should  he  require  the  officious  aid  of  this 

Oh  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 
L   i*       Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep! 


Yet  wherefore?     Quench  within  their  burning  bed          j   /j 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep,  J 


preposterous  Mr.  Shelley?  Surely  the  friends  of 
William  Godwin,  the  greatest  author  in  England, 
will  come  to  his  assistance*?" 

Fanny  began  braiding  her  half-sister's  hair. 
This  was  a  service  she  never  failed  to  render 
when  the  state  of  Mary's  spirits  grew  too  agi- 
tated. 

"Why  don't  you  answer  me?" 

Mary  spoke  sharply.  She  had  assumed  a  re- 
clining position  upon  the  wretched  apology  of  a 
bed,  a  thing  of  ropes  and  boards. 

"I  have  told  you  that  Pa's  friends  have  just 
come  to  his  assistance.  They  raised  a  thousand 
pounds  for  him  last  year,  too." 

Fanny  spoke  soothingly,  mopping  Mary's  head 
with  her  wet  apron  the  while. 

"Upon  my  word!"  cried  the  younger  of  these 
half-sisters  at  last.  "Pa  a  beggar  and  I  not  told 
of  it !  Living  upon  charity !" 

The  girls  started  up  in  consternation.  They 
heard  stertorous  breathings  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  attic. 

"Living  upon   charity!"   echoed   a   querulous 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


voice  at  the  door.  "You're  Pa's  living  upon  me, 
I'm  thinking!" 

Fanny  looked  into  Mary's  deep  grey  eyes  from 
which  a  glance  of  disgust  shot  back  into  Fanny's 
black  orbs.  Neither  of  the  two  had  been  aware 
of  the  approach  of  the  newcomer  until  they  heard 
the  panting  scantness  of  an  asthmatic  breathing. 

It  was  their  stepmother. 


Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 


II 

THE  STEPMOTHER 

THE  very  fat  little  woman  wearing 
green  spectacles  who  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  Fanny's  garret,  glaring  sternly 
at  the  two  girls,  was  Mrs.  William  Godwin,  sec- 
ond wife  of  the  illustrious  author  whose  financial 
embarrassments  just  now  occupied  the  thoughts  of 
his  admiring  daughter. 

The  present  Mrs.  William  Godwin  was  an 
asthmatic  woman  of  mature  years.  Shortness  of 
breath  as  well  as  shortness  of  temper  betrayed 
themselves  in  the  tones  of  her  shrill  voice.  She 
stood  panting  on  the  threshold.  The  unusual  ex- 
ertion of  climbing  the  stairs  took  all  her  breath. 

Fanny  hastened  to  offer  the  lady  the  broken- 
backed  chair. 

"I'm  speechless  calling  you  two  this  last  hour!" 
she  gasped,  dropping  into  the  seat. 

Descend ; — oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air;  S 


Shelley's 


She  was  very  red  in  the  face.  For  a  minute 
she  could  only  struggle  for  her  lost  breath. 
Mary  paid  no  attention  at  all  to  the  presence  of 
her  stepmother,  burying  her  head,  in  fact,  in  the 
one  pillow  on  the  bed. 

"You've  grown  very  deaf,  you  two,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Godwin  finally,  clutching  the  worn  old  chair 
as  if  to  keep  it  from  collapsing  beneath  her  own 
tremendous  weight. 

It  had  been  cracking  ominously,  this  chair,  be- 
neath the  strain  of  Mrs.  Godwin's  three  hundred 
pounds.  She  spoke  in  the  injured  tone  of  a 
woman  who  feels  that  her  grievance  is  against  all 
the  world  rather  than  against  any  one  individual. 
Her  feet,  small  and  shapely  in  spite  of  her  un- 
gainly build,  were  encased  in  slippers  of  carpet, 
very  much  worn.  The  worsted  stockings  she  wore 
were  of  black,  like  her  plain  dress.  She  had  a 
ribbon  of  velvet  in  the  masses  of  her  plentiful 
grey  hair.  The  double  chin  was  folded  over  a 
string  of  beads,  pendent  from  the  full  throat. 
Mrs.  Godwin  had  no  waist.  In  the  place  at  which 
normally  it  might  have  been  expected,  there  be- 

j£       Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and 
M.  O  laughs  at  our  despair. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again!  j  r*i 

Lament  anew,  Urania  ! — He  died,  / 


gan  a  vast  roundness  extending  in  all  directions 
until  she  assumed  the  aspect  of  a  gigantic  top. 
Her  light  blue  eyes  could  not  be  seen  through 
the  green  spectacles  perched  upon  her  nose  in  huge 
circles.  Her  fat  arms  were  exposed  as  far  as  the 
elbows. 

"How  dare  you  refer  to  my  father  in  such  a 
fashion!"  cried  Mary,  suddenly.  She  fairly 
leaped  from  her  recumbent  position  upon  Fanny's 
bed.  "Woman,  how  dare  you*?" 

The  obese  Mrs.  Godwin  was  plunged  into  a 
fresh  asthmatic  fit  by  the  fierceness  as  well  as  the 
suddenness  of  the  attack.  She,  also,  rose  from 
her  reposeful  posture.  She  was  too  short  to  risk 
any  collision  of  her  head  with  the  beam  under 
the  ceiling.  She  stood  speechless.  Mary  walked 
in  her  tartan  dress — brought  from  Scotland  after 
her  visit  to  the  Baxters  there — across  the  floor  to 
her  stepmother's  side.  The  pair  glared  at  one  an- 
other some  little  time  before  Mrs.  Godwin  found 
breath. 

"Don't  dare  to  speak  to  me,  minx!"  she  re- 
torted. "I'd  like  to  know  what  would  have  be- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


come  of  your  father  and  of  you,  too,  but  for 
me." 

"You  are  the  cause  of  all  my  father's  troubles," 
Mary  replied,  more  calmly.  "You  forced  your- 
self upon  him.  You  pursued  him — " 

At  this  point  Fanny,  whose  arm  was  now  round 
Mary's  waist,  placed  a  hand  upon  her  sister's 
mouth. 

"Mary !"  she  said  gently.     "Mary !" 

"Don't  Mary  me !"  was  the  retort  of  that  young 
lady,  wrenching  herself  from  Fanny's  hold.  "I 
refuse  to  endure  this  treatment  any  longer.  I 
mean  to  complain  to  my  father." 

The  stepmother  placed  her  fat  arms  akimbo  and 
glared  fiercely  through  her  green  spectacles. 

"As  if  your  father  hadn't  troubles  enough!" 
she  observed.  "I  see  what's  the  matter  with  you, 
my  fine  lady.  You've  been  living  all  your  life 
in  a  dream.  You've  been  living  the  life  of  a 
princess  lately  with  your  father's  friends  in  Scot- 
land. You  don't  know  your  place." 

She  shot  the  last  words  around  the  bust  of 
Fanny,  whose  arms  were  now  clasping  her  step- 

Q        Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
1  O       Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's  pride, 


The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide,  j  Q 

Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite  s 

mother.  Mary  walked  slowly  back  to  the  little 
window  under  the  roof  and  looked  out  at  the 
soaking  rain.  A  great  tree  outside  on  Skinner 
Street  reared  its  branches  in  the  spring  weather 
until  their  green  leaves  beat  against  the  pines. 
There  came  a  quick  gust  of  wind.  A  shutter  be- 
low banged  against  the  wall.  The  crazy  old 
house  shook  to  its  infirm  foundations. 

"Did  you  want  us,  Ma?" 

If  Fanny,  who  spoke  in  a  tone  of  conciliation 
and  with  all  her  characteristic  gentleness,  meant 
by  the  question  to  soothe  her  stepmother,  she 
effected  the  precise  opposite. 

Mrs.  Godwin  was  steeped  afresh  in  the  waters 
of  her  usual  mood. 

"I  did  think  of  asking  this  fine  lady  to  serve 
a  customer  in  the  shop,"  she  answered  queru- 
lously. "People  come  in  downstairs  to  buy  books 
only  to  be  served  by  a  ten  year  old  boy  who  can 
not  understand  their  questions." 

"I'm  not  your  apprentice,  Mrs.  Godwin,"  broke 
in  Mary,  her  eyes  ablaze.  "If  you  want  your 
shop  taken  care  of,  ask  Jane  to  do  it." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Jane  was  Mrs.  Godwin's  own  daughter,  a  girl 
of  about  the  age  of  Mary.  The  tie  of  blood  that 
bound  Jane  to  the  wife  of  William  Godwin  did 
not  cement  any  friendliness  in  their  intercourse. 
In  truth,  Mrs.  Godwin  quarrelled  with  her  own 
daughter  even  more  fiercely  than  she  fought  her 
stepdaughters. 

"Jane !"  echoed  the  mother  of  the  absent  young 
lady.  "Indeed,  I'd  like  to  know  where  that  hussy 
is  this  minute.  Ever  since  you  put  it  into  her 
head  to  go  on  the  stage,  she  haunts  Drury  Lane." 

"I  will  go  down  to  the  shop,"  said  Fanny, 
dreading  the  outbreak  of  a  scene  even  more  violent 
than  any  that  had  preceded. 

"I'm  glad  to  see,"  observed  the  mollified  fat 
woman,  "that  William  Godwin  has  one  daughter 
who  is  not  too  proud  to  make  herself  useful." 

She  kissed  Fanny  effusively.  Mary  was  now 
bathing  the  bruised  forehead  in  the  little  basin 
upon  the  washstand.  Her  stepmother  paused 
upon  the  threshold  with  Fanny  long  enough  to 
hurl  one  last  barb. 

"You  bold  hussy!"  she  cried.     "I'll  tell  your 

Of  lust  and  blood;  he  went,  unterrified, 
2  O       Into  the  gulf  of  death;  but  his  clear  Sprite 


Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third 
among  the  sons  of  light. 


father  what  I  think  of  this  impertinence  of  yours. 
I  can  not  understand  what  your  father — " 

"Ma!" 

Fanny's  gentle  hand  was  upon  her  stepmother's 
mouth  again. 

"Remember,"  she  whispered,  "that  I,  too,  am  a 
daughter  of  William  Godwin." 

"God  bless  you,  Fanny,"  answered  the  fat 
woman,  throwing  her  arms  about  the  dark  girl's 
neck.  "You  are  the  only  true  daughter  William 
Godwin  has." 

Mary  threw  the  wet  towel  straight  at  her  step 
mother's  head. 

"Devil!"  Mary's  shrill  voice  was  a  perfect 
scream.  "Fanny  is  not  the  daughter  of  William 
Godwin  and  you  know  it." 

Fanny's  hold  upon  her  stepmother's  shoulder 
tightened.  She  turned  in  the  doorway  and  spoke 
to  Mary  with  a  sharpness  of  accent  most  unusual 
in  her. 

"This  is  the  second  time  within  a  week  that 
you  have  said  that  I  am  not  William  Godwin's 
daughter." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Fanny's  words  caused  her  stepmother  to  place 
an  arm  about  her  neck. 

"Come  downstairs,  my  dear,"  she  said. 

Something  in  the  tone  and  something  in  the 
manner  of  her  stepmother  impelled  Fanny  to  re- 
turn to  Mary's  side. 

"Am  I  the  daughter  of  William  Godwin?" 

Mary  exchanged  a  glance  with  her  stepmother. 
Fanny  caught  it.  She  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  mutely.  Walking  to  her  miserable  straw 
bed,  she  literally  fell  upon  it  and  burst  into 
sobs. 

"Hussy!"  cried  Mrs.  Godwin,  shaking  a  fist 
in  Mary's  face.  "What  new  deviltry  are  you  up 
to  now?" 

Fanny  lay  weeping  where  she  fell,  her  face 
buried  in  the  pillow.  Mrs.  Godwin  knelt  beside 
the  prostrate  girl  and  kissed  her. 

"It's  a  lie,  Fanny,"  she  said,  tenderly.  "It's 
a  lie." 

"It's  the  truth!"  Mary  shrieked,  stamping  her 
foot. 

"What  do  you  want  to  tell  it  now,  for?" 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew! 
2  2        Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb ; 


And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew,  sy   *y 

Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time  J 

At  this  question,  Fanny  sat  up.  She  had  dried 
her  tears.  The  two  women  looked  at  her  with- 
out a  word.  A  crisis  had  arrived  in  this  girl's  life. 
The  fact  overwhelmed  them  all. 

"I  am  not  William  Godwin's  daughter. 
Whose  daughter  am  I?" 

The  situation  was  one  which  the  elder  woman 
had  long  foreseen.  Many  a  time  had  Mrs.  God- 
win besought  her  husband  to  reveal  to  Fanny  the 
secret  of  her  birth.  Godwin,  with  his  character- 
istic aloofness,  had  always  evaded  the  necessity. 

"Fanny,  my  dear,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Godwin,  "we 
will  talk  of  this  another  time." 

She  would  have  drawn  the  girl  out  of  the  room 
but  the  gentle  Fanny  was  for  once  bent  upon  hav- 
ing her  own  way. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  Mary,"  she  said.  Her 
voice  was  one  of  earnest  entreaty.  She  laid  a 
hand  upon  the  brow  of  the  radiant  girl  whose 
words  had  just  provoked  this  scene. 

The  truth  respecting  her  birth,  which  Fanny 
was  not  destined  to  learn  until  she  was  twenty,  in- 
volved the  life  led  by  her  mother  in  Paris  during 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


the  days  of  the  Terror.  Fanny  was  not  the 
daughter  of  William  Godwin.  Godwin  seemed 
to  prefer  that  she  live  in  ignorance  of  the  history 
of  her  mother's  early  life.  He  had  pledged  Mrs. 
Clairmont,  prior  to  her  nuptials  with  himself,  to 
respect  this  secret.  How  Mary  had  ascertained 
the  truth  was  a  mystery.  She  had  every  detail  of 
it  precisely.  Mrs.  Godwin  listened  in  silence  as 
her  stepdaughters  conversed.  At  last  she  found 
a  voice. 

"You  are  the  deep  one!" 

This  was  the  only  comment  of  the  stepmother. 
Whenever  Mary  effected  some  stroke  of  domestic 
policy  her  stepmother  would  observe  that  she  was 
a  deep  one.  The  term  became  in  Godwin's  dis- 
cordant household  a  phrase  denoting  Mary. 

No  illusions  on  the  subject  of  her  husband,  the 
renowned  author,  seemed  to  be  left  in  the  soul  of 
Mrs.  William  Godwin. 

"You  have  a  variety  of  particular  information," 
sneered  Mrs.  Godwin,  when  Mary  had  told  the 
weeping  Fanny  the  tale  of  her  mother's  life  with 

In  which  suns  perished;  others  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  god, 


Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime;  /^    £ 

And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road,  ^ 

Imlay.  "Perhaps  you'll  condescend  to  tell  us 
where  you  got  it  all." 

Mary  ignored  her  stepmother. 

"What  I  have  told  you,  Fanny,"  she  proceeded, 
"is  contained  in  our  mother's  letters." 

"Oh,"  blurted  out  Mrs.  Godwin.  "You've 
been  reading  things  not  meant  for  your  eyes." 

Mary  blazed  up  at  this. 

"Pray  attend  to  your  own  affairs,  Mrs.  G.," 
she  said,  tartly.  "I'm  attending  to  mine." 

"You're  attending  to  Fanny's,"  said  the  elder 
lady,  wiping  her  green  spectacles,  and  putting 
them  on  again  to  glare  at  her  contumacious  step- 
daughter. "Those  letters  were  written  by  your 
mother  to  Fanny's  father,  Captain  Imlay." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

Fanny  asked  this  question.  She  was  seated 
upon  her  bed,  dry-eyed  now,  but  very  pale. 

"I  don't  know  what  became  of  your  father," 
said  Mrs.  Godwin.  "He  died,  I  believe,  many 
years  ago." 

"And  my  parents,"  Fanny  proceeded,  swallow- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


ing  a  lump  in  her  throat,  "you  say  they — never 
married1?" 

Mrs.  Godwin  returned  to  Fanny's  side  ere  she 
answered. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  began,  placing  an  arm 
about  the  girl's  neck  and  kissing  her,  while  Mary 
watched  from  the  threshold,  "you  must  remember 
that  twenty  years  ago  people  held  the  most  sub- 
versive notions." 

"My  parents  never  married?" 

"No — they  never  married.  It  was  in  Paris 
that  your  parents  met.  Robespierre  and  those 
Godless  men  ruled  the  country.  There  was  no 
one  to  advise  your  mother  regarding  her  duty  to 
God.  The  clergy  all  had  their  heads  cut  off." 

"Nonsense!"  broke  in  Mary.  "Our  mother 
was  a  radical.  She  was  free  from  the  supersti- 
tions of  the  time.  She  did  not  believe  in  mar- 
riage. No  more  do  I." 

She  disappeared  down  the  stairs  with  a  final 
toss  of  her  pretty  auburn  head.  Mrs.  Godwin 
shook  her  fat  fist. 


^<        Which  leads,  through  toil   and  hate, 
2*  O  to  Fame's  serene  abode. 


But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has  perished,  /*  r^i 

The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew,  / 


"Oh,  that  deep  one,"  she  commented.  "I  won- 
der what  game  she's  playing." 

"Where  is  my  father?" 

Fanny  referred  now  to  William  Godwin.  She 
started  from  her  bed  and  asked  this  question  with 
a  wildness  quite  different  from  the  usual  repose 
of  her  manner. 

"Where,"  she  repeated,  "is  my  father?  I  must 
go  to  him." 

"Your  father  is  downstairs  in  his  study,  my 
dear.  I'd  be  careful  how  I  disturbed  him  just 
now  when  you're  not  yourself.  Drat  that  Mary !" 

Fanny  said  no  more.  Before  her  stepmother 
could  interpose  the  least  objection,  she  had  leaped 
from  the  room.  Mrs.  Godwin  stood  motionless, 
staring  at  the  rain  outside.  Then,  seized  by  a 
sudden  idea,  she,  too,  waddled  in  panting  scant- 
ness  of  breath  down  the  stairs. 

When  Fanny  opened  the  door  of  William  God- 
win's study — a  place  sacred  from  profane  intru- 
sion— and  rushed  frantically  over  to  that  philoso- 
pher's table,  where  he  sat  immersed  in  manu- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


scripts,  an  expression  of  blank  amazement  was 
the  only  greeting  he  could  find  for  her. 

An  irruption  like  Fanny's  was  unprecedented. 
From  the  female  portion  of  his  household,  Wil- 
liam Godwin  exacted  a  deference  which  the  world 
had  long  since  ceased  to  accord  him.  When, 
many  years  before,  his  masterpiece  entitled 
"Political  Justice"  took  young  England  by  storm, 
Europe  was  still  in  the  throes  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution. Godwin  attacked  nearly  every  institu- 
tion which  made  England  a  constitutional  mon- 
archy. He  had  been  particularly  severe  in  his 
denunciation  of  marriage.  The  thing  was  to  him 
anathema,  an  evil.  The  sensation  had  been 
prodigious.  With  the  opening  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  there  had  come  a  decline  of  his  fame. 
That  decline  was  steady.  By  the  time  Fanny 
had  attained  the  age  of  twenty,  the  world  had  well 
nigh  forgotten  William  Godwin. 

He  was  living  now  in  embarrassed  pecuniary 
circumstances  partly  upon  the  business  in  books 
conducted  by  his  second  wife  and  partly  upon  the 
meagre  earnings  of  a  pen  always  prolific  but  sel- 

Q        Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished, 
TL  O       And  fed  with  true-love  tears,  instead  of  dew; 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew !  /^  /•> 

Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  last,  jr 


dom  profitable.  He  had  reached  his  fifty-eighth 
year.  He  lived  much  in  the  library  and  few 
cared  to  intrude  upon  him  there. 

The  bitterness  in  the  tone  of  William  Godwin 
when  he  spoke  reminded  all  who  knew  him  that 
he  was  a  disappointed  man.  This  was  the  open 
secret  of  his  household — the  iron  entering  into 
the  soul  of  his  existence.  The  career  that  had 
opened  so  gloriously  for  William  Godwin  twenty 
years  before,  when  his  work  on  "Political  Justice" 
brought  him  a  thousand  guineas  and  the  intoxica- 
tion of  an  international  fame,  was  threatening 
now  to  close  in  the  ignominy  of  a  debtor's 
prison. 

Godwin  was  still  the  passionless,  frugal  being 
who  had  burst  into  fame  with  his  great  work. 
But  his  spirit  was  poor.  His  life  of  seclusion  in 
an  eccentric  household  had  forced  him  to  a  mode 
of  daily  existence  both  eremitical  and  pedantic. 
He  had  lost  the  money  that  came  to  him  when 
"Caleb  Williams"  first  thrilled  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. Disaster  followed  with  her  heaviest  tread 
when  his  tragedy  of  "Antonio"  failed  at  Drury 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Lane,  although  Kemble  had  essayed  the  leading 
part. 

As  a  miracle  of.  dullness,  indeed,  the  play  of 
"Antonio,"  which  Godwin,  it  must  be  confessed, 
staged  in  high  hope,  received  some  attention  in 
the  press.  There  was  an  audience  which  as- 
sembled in  expectation  because  the  name  of  God- 
win was  still  well  enough  remembered  to  pro- 
voke the  curiosity  of  the  public.  He  had  himself 
laboured  long  and  lovingly  over  the  play.  The 
first  act  seems  to  have  chilled.  The  second  bored 
beyond  endurance.  Godwin,  witnessing  the  ca- 
tastrophe, bore  up  under  the  humiliation  with  his 
usual  grave  impassivity.  He  revealed  the  same 
coldness  of  exterior  with  which  he  endured  the 
harsh  tongue  of  his  wife,  the  fretful  complaints  of 
his  stepdaughter,  Claire,  the  temperament  of  his 
own  daughter  Mary  and  the  insistent  demands  of 
his  growing  troop  of  creditors. 

Godwin's  vanity  had  not  been  wounded  by  the 
checks  his  ambition  as  a  playwright  had  received. 

He  loved  solitude  and  the  study  of  documents 
relative  to  the  life  and  times  of  Milton,  whose 

The  bloom,  whose  petals  nipt  before  they  blew 
2  O       Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste ; 


The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm 
is  over-past. 


31 


nephews  he  was  preparing  to  serve  up  to  the  public 
in  a  ponderous  biography.  He  had  been  rash 
enough  to  embark  in  business  as  a  publisher  and 
bookseller  of  scholastic  and  juvenile  publications. 
The  venture  had  gone  badly.  There  were  fur- 
rows across  the  wide  brow  and  deep  lines  under 
the  large  dark  eyes. 

Godwin  looked  up  from  the  papers  under  his 
big  nose  and  stared  speechlessly  at  Fanny.  She 
had  closed  the  heavy  door  behind  her  and  stood 
for  a  moment  in  a  crestfallen  attitude,  looking  at 
him.  One  glance  sufficed  to  betray  her  agita- 
tion. 

"Fanny!" 

That  was  all  he  said.  The  voice  was  low  and 
not  unmusical,  but  it  sounded  stern  in  her  ears. 
In  a  trice  she  had  rushed,  with  an  impulsiveness 
unusual  in  one  of  her  composure,  to  his  side  and 
was  kneeling  at  his  feet. 

The  room  which  served  Godwin  as  study  and 
library  in  one  was  a  vast  apartment  immediately 
above  the  shop  fronting  on  Skinner  Street.  In 
shape,  this  room  was  a  great  quadrant.  Two 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


windows  let  in  the  light  at  the  front.  Against 
the  wall  was  a  fire  place  in  which  no  wood  burned, 
although  the  spring  morning  was  cool  enough. 
Ranged  along  the  walls  were  roomy  shelves  with 
rows  of  venerable  volumes  stacked  closely  to- 
gether. Opposite  the  fire  place  stood  the  huge 
table  which  did  duty  as  a  desk.  The  floor  of 
this  room  was  as  ancient  as  the  books. 

It  creaked  and  groaned  at  every  step  taken  by 
one  who  crossed  its  aged  precincts.  Facing  God- 
win as  he  sat  was  a  large  canvas — the  portrait  of 
a  beautiful  woman,  done  in  oil  after  the  lacka- 
daisical fashion  of  the  time.  The  eyes  in  the  por- 
trait were  great  and  gleaming,  of  some  indefinable 
shade  of  grey.  They  stared  down  upon  the  phi- 
losopher with  an  uncanny  brightness,  the  one  touch 
of  living  colour  in  his  everyday  life.  The  hair 
of  the  woman  had  evidently  been  red,  and  the 
artist  had  done  it  full  justice.  She  had  stalwart 
shoulders  and  a  full  open  throat  and  she  had 
been  lovely  in  her  day.  The  original  of  the  paint- 
ing was  or  rather  had  been  Mary  Wollstonecraft, 

To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
^  2        Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay, 


He  came;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath,          **  f\ 
A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  away!  J  J 


the  first  wife  of  William  Godwin  and  the  mother 
of  Fanny. 

Godwin  suffered  the  girl  to  kneel  at  his  feet 
without  attempting  to  break  the  silence.  He 
laid  a  hand  affectionately  upon  her  shoulder.  His 
stern  face  did  not  relax  a  line.  Only  the  strong 
mouth  twitched  as  he  felt  the  suppression  of  her 
sobs — for  Fanny  was  weeping.  At  last  she  raised 
her  head. 

"My  dear  father,"  she  began,  looking  intently 
into  his  eyes,  "I  know  all." 

He  looked  down  wonderingly. 

"All?' 

His  thoughts  seemed  far  away.  She  spoke 
more  earnestly,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"I  know  now,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  not  Fanny 
Godwin.  I  am  Fanny  Imlay." 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  portrait  of  her  mother 
above  the  desk.  His  glance  followed  hers. 
Then  he  got  hastily  upon  his  feet. 

"My  child—" 

The  words  were  cut  short  by  the  hasty  entry 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


of  his  wife.  Her  fat  frame  set  every  crazy  board 
in  the  floor  to  creaking  and  groaning. 

"Godwin,"  she  gasped,  panting.  "This  is  all 
Mary's  fault." 

She  spoke  in  the  tone  of  one  to  whom  misery 
was  no  stranger.  In  truth,  it  was  upon  poor  Mrs. 
Godwin,  the  second,  that  the  burden  of  this  er- 
ratic household  fell  heaviest.  She  had  no  such 
pretensions  to  genius  as  brought  renown  to  Wil- 
liam Godwin,  fame  to  Mary  Wollstonecraft  and 
the  attentive  interest  of  the  world  to  their  daugh- 
ter, growing  up  in  the  poverty  of  Skinner  Street. 
Mrs.  Godwin  the  second  translated  from  the 
French  in  a  capable  and  faithful  fashion.  She 
had  an  intimate  knowledge  of  whatever  literature 
for  the  young  was  available  in  her  time.  She  con- 
ducted the  "Juvenile  Library"  in  the  shop  on  the 
ground  floor  and  strove  desperately  to  retrieve 
her  husband's  falling  fortunes.  With  her  great 
green  spectacles  upon  her  nose  and  a  black  velvet 
dress  to  outline  her  figure  in  its  fatness,  she  sat 
hour  after  hour  in  the  shop,  serving  the  customers 
who  asked  for  Lamb's  "Tales  from  Shakespeare" 

Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
*  &L       Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 


He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 
Awake  him  not!  surely  he  takes  his  fill 


— one  of  Godwin's  few  successes  as  a  publisher — 
or  sought  a  treatise  on  grammar.  Finally,  she 
was  a  most  excellent  cook.  She  had  reached  God- 
win's soul  through  his  stomach  even  if  she  had 
first  reached  his  heart  through  his  vanity. 

Godwin  received  his  wife's  remark  now  with  a 
gesture  denoting  some  slight  impatience.  He  had 
long  perceived  that  his  wife  had  caught  him  in 
the  wiles  of  a  flattery  so  gross  that  even  he  blushed 
as  he  looked  back  upon  the  past.  Her  cookery 
alone  reconciled  him  to  his  lot.  He  did  not  suffer 
her  presence  in  his  study  gladly,  for  it  was  an 
open  secret  that  Godwin's  wife  ruled  him  with  a 
rod  of  iron.  The  supreme  nature  of  the  domestic 
crisis  forced  him  to  tolerate  her  now,  but  he  was 
manifestly  chagrined  by  the  necessity. 

"Sit  down." 

He  addressed  her  shortly,  even  sharply.  The 
fat  lady  needed  no  invitation.  She  had  col- 
lapsed already  upon  a  great  chair,  which,  like 
every  article  of  furniture  in  that  house,  seemed  to 
symbolize  by  its  conditions  the  fallen  state  of 
Godwin's  fortunes. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"My  dear  Fanny — " 

But  Godwin  was  destined  to  another  interrup- 
tion. It  was  occasioned  this  time  by  the  arrival 
of  Mary.  That  young  lady,  still  in  her  tartan 
dress,  dashed  in  unceremoniously  and  flew  to  her 
father's  side.  Nothing  revealed  more  plainly 
than  the  ease  of  her  manner  how  spoiled  this  child 
was. 

Mary  had  inherited  the  ardour  and  the  tem- 
perament of  her  mother.  She  was  growing  into 
just  such  a  character  as  had  produced  "A  Vindica- 
tion of  the  Rights  of  Woman"  years  before. 
Mary  Godwin  had  what  her  mother,  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft,  lacked — a  constructive  faculty.  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  had  been  incapable  of  a  plan. 
The  life  of  Mary  Godwin,  her  daughter,  was  one 
consistent  plan.  Mary  Wollstonecraft  had  been 
impulsive.  Mary  Godwin  was  cool  and  calculat- 
ing. She  had  her  father's  coldness  of  head  with 
her  mother's  ferocious  jealousy.  Where  her 
mother  would  have  given  all  for  love,  the  daughter 
necessarily  wanted  all  for  love  because  she  could 
not  give  a  thing.  The  mother  was  a  dreamer. 


Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful 
of  all  ill. 


He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more! — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace, 


37 


The  daughter  was  a  doer.  The  mother  was  as 
transparent  as  the  ether.  The  daughter's  nature 
was  like  some  garden  pond  out  of  which  lilies  and 
all  things  lovely  could  spring  but  in  the  depths 
of  which  strange  lizards  crawled.  The  mother 
was  an  original  genius.  The  daughter  never 
formed  an  idea  at  first  hand. 

"Yes,  Pa,"  Mary  now  said,  with  something  like 
a  pout,  "I  told  Fanny  the  truth  about  herself." 

Godwin's  thin  lips  parted  to  form  a  smile — his 
first  that  day. 

"You  might  have  waited." 

That  was  all  he  permitted  himself  to  say.  He 
understood  the  bold  spirit  of  his  daughter  and 
brave  as  he  was  he  never  risked  a  collision  with 
her  indomitable  will. 

"And  perhaps  you  will  tell  us  why  you  did  not 
mind  your  own  business,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Godwin. 

"Perhaps  you  will  tell  us  why  you  don't  mind 
yours,"  interjected  Mary.  "This  is  a  matter 
which  concerns  me  but  does  not  regard  you.'* 

"Of  all  the  hussies — "  broke  forth  the  fat 
woman  in  the  green  spectacles. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Godwin  held  up  his  hand  and  there  was  silence. 
The  profound  respect  he  exacted  from  all  his 
women  folk  held  them  spellbound  as  he  paced  the 
floor  in  his  agitation.  The  boards  groaned  be- 
neath his  booted  feet.  He  did  not  heed  them,  al- 
though ordinarily  the  jarring  of  a  passing  dray 
gave  him  torture. 

In  the  opinion  of  the  more  serious  element 
among  his  contemporaries,  Godwin  was  a  man  of 
considerable  abilities,  but  of  little  judgment  and 
less  wisdom.  The  pious  felt  that  in  his  efforts  at 
reform,  he  lacked  that  foundation  without  which 
all  such  efforts  are  hopeless — a  recognition  of 
man's  moral  depravity  and  the  necessity  of  main- 
taining a  constant  sense  of  strict  accountability  to 
his  maker.  His  first  wife,  Mary  Wollstonecraft, 
was  indeed  dead  long  since,  but  the  circumstance 
that  he  had  formed  a  connection  of  any  kind  with 
a  woman  of  such  notoriously  bad  character  in  the 
estimation  of  the  evangelical  disposed  the  general 
opinion  against  him.  It  kept  his  children  in  some- 
thing like  disrepute.  When  Godwin  subsequently 
wrote  and  published  memoirs  of  his  first  wife,  the 

The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 


His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 


pious  denounced  it  as  disreputable  to  his  name  as 
well  as  to  that  of  his  late  spouse.  "She  appears," 
said  The  Gentleman's  Magazine^  "to  have  been 
grossly  irreligious,  indelicate  and  dissolute."  The 
basis  of  this  impression  was  the  irregular  and  no- 
torious character  of  the  union  which  had  produced 
Fanny  Imlay  and  the  unconventional  inti- 
macy with  Godwin  that  preceded  the  birth  of 
Mary. 

"I  presume,"  he  said  slowly  at  last,  without 
looking  at  the  three  women,  "that  the  revelation 
which  has  so  profoundly  affected  our  Fanny  has 
reference  to  the  circumstances  of  her  birth." 

"It's  all  the  work  of  that  deep  one,"  burst  out 
Mrs.  Godwin,  pressing  a  hand  to  her  full  bosom 
and  panting  as  she  spoke.  "What  her  object  can 
have  been  God  only  knows." 

"My  love,"  said  Godwin,  turning  to  his  spouse 
with  as  much  warmth  of  manner  as  his  cold  na- 
ture permitted,  "pray  compose  yourself.  You  are 
by  no  means  the  least  agitated  of  us  all." 

"Fanny  had  to  be  told  some  time,  Papa,"  Mary 
ventured  to  say. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Fanny,  who  had  been  kneeling  before  her  moth- 
er's portrait,  arose  and  faced  Godwin. 

"My  dear  father,"  she  said,  taking  him  by  the 
arm,  "I  may  still  be  your  child*?" 

The  philosopher  halted  in  his  walk  and  took 
Fanny's  face  in  his  large  white  hands.  He  gazed 
long  into  her  eyes  before  he  spoke. 

"You  have  always  been  my  child,"  he  said. 
"You  will  always  be  my  child." 

"And  mine." 

Mrs.  Godwin  bawled  these  words.  She  stood 
upright,  evidently  intending  to  rush  over  to  Fanny 
and  clasp  her  in  the  ample  arms  she  extended  in 
the  direction  of  the  waif.  The  fat  lady  was  un- 
equal to  the  physical  strain  of  her  purpose,  how- 
ever, and  she  collapsed  again  in  her  chair.  The 
episode  amused  Mary  hugely. 

"I  told  Fanny  for  Fanny's  good,"  she  ventured 
to  say.  "I  think  she  has  been  quite  too  free  with 
Mr.  Shelley  of  late." 

"My  love." 

Godwin  spoke  reprovingly,  but  Mary  was  not 
to  be  abashed. 


Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 


Of  change  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal 
curtain  draw. 


"I  mean  just  what  I  say,  Papa,"  she  persisted. 
"Mr.  Shelley,  I  find,  has  been  rather  frequent  in 
his  visits  here.  What  other  object  can  he  have 
than  to  see  Fanny?" 

"Oh!" 

A  slight  exclamation  burst  from  the  lips  of 
Fanny.  She  hid  her  face  on  Godwin's  shoulder, 
much  to  the  discomfiture  of  that  distinguished 
man.  He  could  not  receive  any  manifestation  of 
feminine  sensibility  with  composure.  He  stood 
now  patting  Fanny's  dark  hair  and  frowning  at 
the  wall. 

"I  conceive,  my  dear  child,"  he  said  with  sever- 
ity to  Mary,  "that  you  do  not  comprehend  the 
nobility  of  Mr.  Shelley's  motives." 

"Nobility  of  Mr.  Shelley's  motives!"  echoed 
the  asthmatic  Mrs.  Godwin  in  amazement.  "I'd 
like  to  know  what  noble  motive  ever  inspired  that 
madman.  He's  broken  his  wife's  heart,  that  he 
has." 

Her  flow  of  words  was  checked  by  a  look  from 
her  husband. 

"Mr.    Shelley's   visits   here,"   he   said   coldly, 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"have  no  other  object  than  the  relief  of  my — 
ahem — financial  embarrassments." 

Mary  started. 

"Are  you  financially  embarrassed,  Papa?" 

Godwin  conducted  Fanny  to  one  of  the  broken 
chairs  in  the  room  before  he  replied. 

"Unless  I  raise  three  thousand  pounds,"  he  said 
then,  "I  shall  go  to  a  prison  cell." 

"A  cell!" 

This  revelation  stunned  the  women.  They 
gazed  in  mute  dismay  at  the  author  of  "Political 
Justice."  That  immortal  confronted  them  with 
cold  composure. 

"Mr.  Shelley,"  he  observed  after  a  pause,  "has 
pledged  himself  to  raise  the  money  for  me." 

Mrs.  Godwin  broke  in. 

"That  Mr.  Shelley!  I  can't  abide  him.  He's 
mad,  I  tell  you  again." 

It  was  obvious  that  mere  mention  of  the  poet's 
name  clouded  the  whole  horizon  of  this  fat  lady's 
day.  Her  green  spectacles  lost  their  conspicuity 
in  the  greater  effect  of  the  look  of  disgust  and 
horror  blended  which  now  wrinkled  her  nose. 

Oh  weep  for  Adonais! — The  quick  Dreams, 
A  Zr        The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought, 


Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams  A  *\ 

Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught  |  J 


Nor  had  she  concluded  the  counts  of  her  indict- 
ment. 

"Such  manners  as  Mr.  Shelley  has!  Did  you 
ever  heed  the  way  he  eats?  Such  bird  peckings 
at  this  and  that  without  tasting  anything.  And 
the  style  about  him  of  clattering  up  and  down 
the  stairs.  He  never  talks  to  a  person  face  to 
face.  He  goes  off  into  the  next  room  and  screams 
at  you.  Then  he  rolls  over  and  over  on  the  floor 
until  he  makes  you  giddy." 

"He  has  a  very  generous  heart." 

Fanny  put  in  this  word  for  the  absent  Shelley. 

"He's  a  great  poet,"  Mary  observed.  "While 
I  was  in  Scotland  his  poem  of  Queen  Mab  was 
read  aloud  to  us  by  Mr.  Baxter.  He  said  it  was 
a  masterpiece." 

This  report  impressed  Godwin. 

"Did  Mr.  Baxter  say  that?' 

Mary  nodded. 

"My  stars  and  garters !"  cried  the  wife  of  God- 
win. 

She  exchanged  a  significant  glance  with  Mary. 
Fanny  was  the  first  to  say  the  next  word. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Bysshe  is  a  great  poet." 

She  said  this  in  a  low  voice  as  if  she  meant  to 
speak  only  to  herself.  But  Mary  had  caught  the 
phrase. 

"So  he  is  Bysshe  to  you  still,  Fanny.  I  am 
afraid  you  do  not  distinguish  between  gratitude 
and—" 

She  hesitated.  Her  father  looked  inquiringly 
at  his  youngest  daughter. 

"Between  .gratitude  and  what,  Mary*?" 

"Love,"  she  said  defiantly.  "I  think  .this 
poetical  Mr.  Shelley  is  falling  in  love  with  our 
Fanny.  Perhaps  he  comes  here  to  see  her  as  much 
as  to  lend  you  three  thousand  pounds." 

Godwin  winced. 

"Mr.  Shelley  married  his  wife  for  the  second 
time  only  the  other  day,"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  cried  Mary. 

"I  went  with  him  to  get  the  license,"  remarked 
her  father  with  his  habitual  coolness. 

"I  can  understand  a  man's  marrying  a  woman 
once,"  commented  Mrs.  Godwin,  when  she  could 

The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
A  A       Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain, 


But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung;   and  mourn         A   * 


their  lot 


find  a  voice,  "but  I  never  heard  of  his  marrying  the 
same  woman  twice." 

"I  thought  this  Mr.  Shelley  did  not  believe  in 
marriage,  Papa,"  observed  Mary.  "Does  he  not 
say  that  he  gets  his  principles  from  your  book?" 

Godwin  winced  again. 

"I  am  always  eager  to  protect  the  young  from 
a  hasty  application  of  principle." 

There  was  some  embarrassment  in  his  man- 
ner as  he  said  that.  His  wife  was  looking  at  him 
rather  keenly.  She  did  not  share  the  'radical 
views  of  her  predecessor.  She  had  taken  Godwin 
to  the  altar. 

"I  am  afraid  that  Mr.  Shelley's  visits  here,  when 
he  is  lending  you  so  much  money,  will  place  poor 
Fanny  in  a  false  position." 

Mary  spoke  with  judicial  impartiality.  Her 
words  transfixed  her  father. 

"What  if  Fanny  were  to  go  away,"  he  sug- 
gested suddenly.  "I  have  an  invitation  from 
some  relatives  of  hers.  They  want  her  to  go  to 
Wales." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Fanny  raised  her  arm  in  protest. 

"Father!"  She  had  placed  a  hand  upon  his 
arm  and  her  voice  was  pleading.  "Will  you 
send  me  away?  And  just  after  I  have  been  told 
the  truth  about  myself." 

There  was  a  tear  upon  her  cheek.  In  the  rush 
of  emotion  which  overcame  her,  poor  Fanny  now 
looked  almost  pretty.  She  had  been  so  deeply 
scarred  by  the  small  pox  when  a  mere  babe  that 
its  pittings  never  left  her  skin.  The  complexion 
was  like  that  of  boiled  rice.  Yet  the  skin  of  this 
girl  was  more  pleasing  to  the  eye  than  seemed 
just  then  the  leaden  hue  of  the  face  of  Godwin. 
His  large  face  was  contracted  by  something  sug- 
gestive of  a  spasm.  He  was  a  large  man  with 
large  features,  but  he  was  not  tall.  Fanny  ex- 
ceeded him  in  height  by  a  foot,  at  least.  She 
could  look  down  into  his  eyes  as  she  entreated 
him  to  let  her  stay. 

"Fanny,  my  child,"  he  began,  "you  shall  please 
yourself." 

Mary's  grey  eyes  flashed.     The  devouring  jeal- 


46 


Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet  pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home  again. 


And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his  cold  head,         *  r-j 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries;          |    / 


ousy  of  her  nature  was  awakened  by  this  scene. 
Yet  there  was  only  sisterly  love  in  the  expression 
of  the  face  she  turned  to  Fanny  to  say  what  was 
in  her  mind. 

"Would  you  have  the  world  say  William  God- 
win had  sold  our  Fanny  for  money  ?" 

She  looked  up  into  the  face  of  her  sister.  God- 
win could  note  the  great  difference  in  the  natures 
as  well  as  in  the  faces  of  his  first  wife's  two  daugh- 
ters as  they  both  stood  there  by  his  side.  Fanny 
was  tall,  as  has  been  noted  already,  but  Mary 
tended  to  the  abbreviated  stature  of  her  father. 
The  scarred  skin  of  the  elder  girl  sustained  no 
comparison  with  the  pale  but  clear  and  exquisite 
complexion  of  Mary.  The  dark  tresses  of  Fanny 
relieved  or  rather  heightened  the  auburn  effect  of 
Mary's  abundant  coils  of  hair.  For  a  minute  the 
grey  and  glittering  eyes  of  Mary  poured  them- 
selves into  the  beady  blackness  of  Fanny's  orbs. 

"Mr.  Shelley  does  not  love  me,"  Fanny  said 
faintly. 

"He  is  courting  you  openly,"  insisted  Mary 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


with  her  usual  decisiveness  of  tone.  "He  has  a 
wife  and  a  child  and  yet  I  hear  him  reading  aloud 
his  most  passionate  verses  to  you.  He  comes  here 
to  assist  Papa  financially — " 

"I  will  go  to  Wales." 

Fanny  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

Godwin  indulged  in  a  display  of  sentiment  rare 
for  one  of  his  cold  temperament.  He  took 
Fanny's  head  in  his  large  hands  and  drew  it  down 
to  his. 

"You  are  a  good  girl,"  he  said.  "I  think  it 
well  that  you  should  accept  this  invitation  from 
your  mother's  good  friends." 

"It's  all  very  well  to  talk,"  interjected  Mrs. 
Godwin,  "but  who's  to  help  me  in  the  shop*?" 

Godwin  waived  the  objection  aside  with  an  im- 
patient gesture. 

"Since  Mr.  Shelley  is  aiding  you  with  his 
money,"  Mary  broke  in,  "help  can  be  hired.  I 
will  discuss  that  matter  with  him  myself." 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  objected  Godwin.  "Leave 
that  to  me.  He  is  to  dine  with  us  this  evening." 


48 


"Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead ; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 


Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 

A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his  brain." 


This  intelligence  did  not  quite  delight  the 
philosopher's  wife. 

"Dine !"  she  exclaimed.  "Do  you  call  his  style 
of  eating  dining*?  Sure,  he  never  was  taught  to 
eat.  He  pecks  like  a  bird." 

Indifferent  as  Shelley  might  be  to  the  things  he 
put  into  his  stomach,  William  Godwin  liked  a 
good  dinner.  No  one  appreciated  that  circum- 
stance with  a  nicer  instinct  than  his  second  wife. 
She  had,  to  be  sure,  won  him  originally  by  appeals 
to  his  consciousness  of  greatness.  She  retained 
her  empire  over  his  nature  by  the  excellence  of 
the  meals  she  cooked.  The  hint  from  Godwin 
that  the  young  poet  would  be  a  guest  at  their 
table  that  evening  was  taken  by  Mrs.  Godwin 
to  mean  that  Godwin  himself  would  feel  better 
equipped  for  the  financial  negotiations  if  his  in- 
ner man  were  fortified.  Mrs.  Godwin  was  well 
aware  of  the  vital  importance  of  the  sum  her  hus- 
band wanted  from  Shelley.  Printers  came  daily 
to  the  little  shop  in  Skinner  Street  with  impatient 
demands  for  their  money.  She  had  held  earnest 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


discourse  with  her  husband  regarding  the  necessity 
of  saving  him  from  a  debtor's  prison.  Their  one 
hope  was  in  Shelley.  With  a  sigh  the  obese  little 
Mrs.  Godwin  waddled  off  to  the  kitchen  and  ab- 
sorbed herself  in  roast  beef  and  potatoes  and 
greens. 


Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise! 
C  O       She  knew  not  'twas  her  own;  as  with  no  stain 


Ill 

POET  AND  PHILOSOPHER 

THE  pessimism  of  obese  Mrs.  Godwin 
on  the  subject  of  her  husband's  poetical 
young  friend  was  justified  by  his  un- 
punctuality  in  arriving  for  dinner  that  day.  The 
hour  ordinarily  set  for  the  meal  was  the  odd  one 
of  three.  It  had  been  postponed  until  much  later 
on  this  occasion,  owing  to  an  engagement  of  the 
inspired  Shelley  in  town.  The  long  afternoon 
was  spent  by  the  bustling  Mrs.  Godwin  over  pots 
and  pans.  Her  kitchen  was  established  imme- 
diately behind  the  Juvenile  Library  she  conducted 
on  Skinner  Street.  The  apartment  in  which  the 
meal  was  cooked  was  the  same  in  which  the  meal 
was  eaten.  The  room  looked  out  upon  a  strip  of 
dreary  garden  now  straggling  into  bloom  at  the 
back  of  the  decayed  old  house. 

"Now,  William,"  vociferated  Mrs.  Godwin  in 

She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  p   j 

outwept  its  rain.  ^ 


Shelley's 


her  sharpest  voice  to  her  eleven  year  old  son,  who 
was  aiding  his  mother  about  the  stove,  "be  sure 
to  keep  silent  until  you  are  spoken  to  while  Mr. 
Shelley  is  here." 

The  little  boy's  face  assumed  an  injured  ex- 
pression.    He  dropped  a  potato  upon  the  floor. 
"But  he  makes  faces  at  me." 
The  little  boy  was  sorting  the  newly  boiled 
potatoes  at  a  great  tub.     The  vegetables  swam 
about  or  sank  in  the  hot  water  according  to  their 
size  or  weight. 

"Then  you  must  not  heed  him,  my  child." 
'Til  pull  his  hair  if  he  pulls  mine." 
"Didn't  he  give  you  a  sovereign  last  week?" 
"That  was  to  get  me  away  while  he  sparked 
Fan." 

Mrs.  Godwin  turned  from  the  great  oven.  She 
was  extracting  a  huge  piece  of  meat  preparatory 
to  its  adjustment  on  the  spit. 

"Does  he  talk  to  Fanny  more  than  to  you?" 

The  little  boy  laughed. 

"He  comes  here  only  to  see  Fanny." 

A  great  clock  standing  in  the  angle  of  the  door 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
K  X       Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming  them; 


Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw  p  *y 

The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem,  J  3 


post  ticked  towards  four  when  a  summons  to  din- 
ner was  issued  in  Mrs.  Godwin's  most  peremptory 
manner.  She  exacted  from  every  member  of  that 
household  the  preciseness  which  only  the  good 
cook  can  command.  She  was  sovereign  over  all 
meals.  Her  title  to  such  sway  was  without  a 
flaw.  Her  dinners  were  excellent. 

Fanny  was  the  first  to  put  in  an  appearance 
at  the  table.  She  had  been  serving  an  unexpected 
customer  in  the  shop. 

"A  man  came  in  for  a  copy  of  'Sepulchres,'  "  she 
observed. 

This  was  an  essay  put  forth  in  a  limited  edition 
by  Godwin  some  years  before.  It  had  not  proved 
financially  remunerative,  yet  the  small  edition  was 
now  exhausted. 

"Did  you  tell  him  it  was  printing?"  asked  Mrs. 
Godwin. 

Fanny  nodded. 

"That  was  a  lie,"  observed  Mrs.  Godwin,  "but 
we  can't  tell  people  the  printers  refuse  to  do  any 
work  for  us  until  we  pay  them." 

"Isn't  Mr.  Shelley  to  advance  some  money?" 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


This  question,  put  by  Fanny  with  her  usual 
timidity  of  manner,  was  uttered  in  her  usual  low 
tone.  It  was  not  intended  for  the  little  William's 
ear  but  that  acute  organ  caught  it  none  the  less. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  cried  from  his  station  beside 
the  potatoes,  "Mr.  Shelley  is  to  lend  Papa  three 
thousand  pounds." 

"Then  we'll  pay  the  printer,"  laughed  Fanny. 

"Mind  your  own  business!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Godwin,  flapping  her  son's  face  with  a  towel. 
"Who  told  you  anything  about  three  thousand 
pounds'?" 

William  set  up  a  bawl. 

"Mr.  Shelley  told  me  himself,"  cried  the  child. 
"And  I  am  to  have  a  new  suit  of  clothes." 

"I  think  Mr.  Shelley  is  rather  free  with  his 
promises,"  observed  the  mother,  as  she  set  a  plate 
of  bread  upon  the  table,  "I'd  like  to  know  where 
he's  to  get  three  thousand  pounds  from,  while  his 
father  refuses  him  a  shilling  to  pay  his  debts." 

"He's  been  to  see  the  Jews,"  returned  the  lad. 
"Mr.  Shelley  told  me  so." 

"He  might  be  better  employed  than  in  talking 

Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 


Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 

A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak ; 


over  his  money  affairs  with  you,"  said  the  mother. 
"Where's  that  Mary?" 

The  young  lady  walked  in  just  then  and  seated 
herself  without  a  word  to  any  one.  She  still  wore 
the  tartan  dress.  There  was  a  ribbon  in  her  hair. 
Mrs.  Godwin  contemplated  Mary's  pretty  but 
inscrutable  face  with  obvious  disapproval. 

"Call  your  father!"  she  said  shortly. 

The  injunction  was  superfluous.  Godwin,  the 
incarnation  of  punctuality,  entered  the  room  at 
that  moment. 

Whatever  traces  of  manly  beauty  might  have 
lingered  about  the  form  and  face  of  William  God- 
win when  first  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
divine  Shelley  were  now  obliterated  by  the  hand 
of  time.  The  author  of  "Political  Justice"  was  at 
present  as  stout  as  he  was  short  and  he  was  de- 
cidedly short.  That  shortness  was  accentuated  by 
the  thickness  of  his  frame.  The  hair  had  receded 
from  his  forehead  until  he  had  become  very  bald. 
The  largeness  of  the  head  confirmed  the  baldness 
cruelly.  His  dress  was  so  very  severe  as  to  sug- 
gest narrow  means.  The  long  coat  was  of  a  very 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


old-fashioned  make,  even  for  the  time.  His  ap- 
pearance suggested  a  decrepit  old  age. 

Pacing  in  his  magisterial  manner  to  the  head 
of  the  table,  he  seated  himself  without  a  word. 
Not  until  he  had  taken  his  place  did  little  William, 
the  fruit  of  his  union  with  his  second  spouse,  fol- 
low the  august  example.  Godwin  had  in  his  hand 
a  copy  of  that  day's  Times.  He  unfolded  it  be- 
fore his  plate  and  was  soon  absorbed  in  its  con- 
tents. 

"Bliicher  is  to  visit  England,"  he  said  without 
looking  up.  "The  Prince  Regent  has  invited  him. 
There  will  be  a  great  outpouring  of  the  troops." 

Mary  clapped  her  hands. 

"The  soldiers,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I  do  love  to 
see  them." 

Godwin  frowned. 

"The  presence  of  the  military  in  numbers,"  he 
observed,  "is  evidence  of  a  disturbed  state  of  so- 
ciety." 

"They'll  get  the  best  of  Bonyparte  this  time," 
observed  his  wife.  "I'm  sorry  for  that." 

"Bonaparte,"  commented  Godwin  with  a  most 

And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against 
his  frozen  cheek. 


Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  alit, 

That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 


unwonted  vehemence,  "is  a  curse  to  the  human 
race." 

There  was  an  unpleasant  dryness  in  the  tones  of 
William  Godwin's  voice.  He  spoke  like  a  man 
who  had  to  clear  his  throat  for  the  purpose.  The 
utterance  was  indistinct,  hesitating,  even  sugges- 
tive of  a  stutterer.  There  were  moments  when  the 
mere  effort  of  talking  seemed  painful.  He  would 
then  clear  his  throat  audibly,  essay  a  sentence 
and  at  last  give  it  up  as  too  great  a  physical 
strain. 

He  was  eating  the  soup  before  him  with  most 
majestic  calm.  The  table  was  well  supplied  with 
silver  and  plate,  relics  of  a  former  and  more  pros- 
perous marriage  of  his  second  wife's.  Godwin's 
eye  suddenly  lit  upon  the  vacant  chair  set  for  the 
poet. 

"Where  is  our  young  friend?" 

The  philosopher  had  scarcely  framed  the  ques- 
tion when  a  clatter  arose  in  the  shop.  The  street 
door  shivered  and  groaned  upon  well  worn  hinges. 
There  was  an  unearthly  scream  without.  A  rush 
of  footsteps  succeeded.  Shelley  burst  precipi- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


tately  into  the  room,  heralded  by  a  cap  which  he 
flung  before  him.  He  said  nothing  at  first  to 
any  one,  but  dashed  to  the  fire,  where  he  stood 
shivering  and  chafing  his  hands.  Suddenly  the 
poet  turned  around  and  faced  the  company. 

"Godwin!"  he  cried,  "I  have  discovered  Ario- 
sto !  The  easy,  flowing  style  of  Ariosto  presents 
fewer  difficulties  than  do  the  elaborate  stanzas  of 
Tasso." 

He  held  a  book  aloft  in  high  glee,  facing  the 
company  with  excitement  in  his  eyes  and  a  de- 
light thrilling  his  freckled  face. 

"Late  again." 

Godwin  spoke  with  a  mouth  full  of  meat. 

"I  attended  a  lecture,"  explained  the  poet  in  a 
shrill  whisper.  "I  went  away  indeed  before  the 
lecture  was  finished.  I  stole  away.  It  was  so 
stupid.  I  was  so  cold.  My  teeth  chattered. 
The  lecturer  saw  me  go  and  appeared  furious.  I 
thought  I  should  have  got  out  without  being  ob- 
served. I  struck  my  knee  against  a  bench  and 
made  a  noise." 

"What  did  the  man  talk  about?" 


O        Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded 
K  O        And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 


wit, 


With  lightning  and  with  music:  the  damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips; 


"Stones.  Stones.  Stones.  Nothing  but  stones. 
And  so  drily." 

Mary  had  not  during  the  progress  of  this  scene 
once  taken  her  eyes  from  the  face  of  Shelley. 
She  studied  him  as  a  savant  might  have  studied  a 
curious  specimen  in  the  laboratory. 

In  this  twenty-second  year  of  a  brief  life  Percy 
Bysshe  Shelley  did  not  look  his  six  feet  of  height. 
That  tendency  to  stoop  which  much  poring  over 
books  had  already  confirmed  in  him  was  decided. 
Yet  were  his  limbs  well-proportioned,  strong  and 
long.  Two  details  of  his  aspect  riveted  atten- 
tion. One  was  his  extraordinarily  juvenile  look. 
He  was  eternal  youth  incarnate.  But  his  won- 
drous youth  was  not  more  amazing  than  the  qual- 
ity of  his  eyes.  These  were  very  large  and  very 
blue.  The  light  seemed  to  stream  from  a  wild 
but  profound  soul  through  these  magnetic  and  rov- 
ing eyes,  now  deep  as  the  ocean  and  again  glint- 
ing and  glittering  with  the  flash  of  the  diamond. 
Nothing  could  be  slighter  and  more  fragile  than 
the  build  of  his  frame.  This  delicate  appearance 
lost  nothing  from  a  perpetual  stoop.  His  attire 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


was  costly  but  fantastic.  A  black  velvet  coat  con- 
trasted sharply  with  the  tight  brown  breeches  en- 
casing the  long  limbs  closely.  The  collar  was 
open,  exposing  the  milky  whiteness  of  a  girlish 
throat.  His  dress  suggested  the  tumbled  and 
rumpled,  like  the  disorder  of  his  masses  of  hair. 
Every  gesture  was  abrupt.  He  waved  his  arms 
incessantly. 

"You  are  late  again,  my  dear  Shelley,"  Godwin 
found  occasion  to  repeat  at  the  poet's  outburst. 
"I  am  afraid  you  are  not  tempted  to  regularity  of 
habits  by  any  awe  of  the  name  of  Godwin." 

"The  name  of  Godwin,"  shrieked  Shelley,  run- 
ning his  long  and  tapering  white  fingers  through 
his  masses  of  hair,  "the  name  of  Godwin  has  been 
used  to  excite  in  me  feelings  of  reverence  and 
admiration.  I  have  been  accustomed  to  consider 
him  a  luminary  too  dazzling  for  the  darkness 
which  surrounds  him.  From  the  earliest  period  of 
my  knowledge  of  his  principles,  I  have  ardently 
desired  to  share,  on  the  footing  of  intimacy,  that 
intellect  which  I  have  delighted  to  contemplate 
in  its  emanations." 

X  And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 

O  O       Of  moonlight  vapour,  which  the  cold  night  clips, 


It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed  ^  j 

to  its  eclipse. 

The  wealth  of  gesture  with  which  the  young 
poet  accompanied  this  florid  speech  was  exceeded 
by  the  wealth  of  emotion  streaming  from  his  eye. 
His  voice  ascended  in  pitch  as  he  proceeded  until 
the  closing  words  left  his  lips  in  a  scream.  He 
darted  hither  and  thither  about  the  room,  now 
pointing  a  finger  at  Godwin,  and  again  raising  a 
hand  aloft  to  give  solemnity  to  his  language. 
The  distinguished  object  of  the  poet's  eulogy  re- 
ceived it  with  gravity  and  listened  with  evident 
satisfaction.  Shelley's  speech  left  upon  the  minds 
of  his  auditors  a  conviction  that  however  great  he 
might  be  as  a  poet  he  was  even  greater  as  an 
orator. 

"I  have  been  puzzling  myself  over  the  poem 
you  last  sent  me,  asking  my  opinion,"  observed 
Godwin,  cutting  the  meat  in  the  great  platter  be- 
fore him.  "I  wrote  you  this  morning.  Perhaps 
you  have  not  received  the  letter?" 

Shelley  fluttered  the  leaves  of  the  volume  of 
Ariosto  in  his  hand  and  shook  his  immense  head 
of  hair  blankly.  Godwin  shovelled  a  mess  of 
potatoes  into  his  large  mouth  before  proceeding, 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"I  hoped  to  find  a  beginning  of  what  your  poem 
was  all  about,"  he  proceeded.  "I  could  find  noth- 
ing but  high  sounding  words.  I  could  discover 
no  clue  to  the  subject  or  middle  or  end.  It  was 
like  a  discharged  cartridge  in  a  sham  battle. 
There  was  noise,  clamour,  and  some  fury  in  the 
words  but  what  it  portended  I  could  not  discover 
except  that  poetry  is  not  your  vocation.  You 
should  write  prose.  Your  letter  to  the  Lord 
Chancellor  on  Eaton's  case  was  admirable.  Log- 
ical. Argumentative.  Convincing.  Prose  must 
be  your  forte." 

Shelley  exchanged  one  of  his  wild  looks  with 
Fanny.  Occasionally  he  sawed  the  air  violently 
with  both  hands,  but  more  frequently  he  moved 
an  arm  with  natural  and  instinctive  grace.  The 
delicacy  of  the  very  fair  complexion  brought  out 
that  girlishness  of  aspect  which  Godwin  much  ad- 
mired and  which  to  Fanny  was  adorable.  Ex- 
posure to  the  sun  had  tanned  and  freckled  him 
without  robbing  his  countenance  of  the  angelical 
quality  for  which  it  was  so  remarkable.  The 
nose,  the  ears  and  the  chin  were,  like  the  face  as  a 

><  And  others  came  .  .  .  Desires  and  Adorations, 

O  2       Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 


Splendours  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering  Incarnations       ^  f\ 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies;  J 

whole,  built  upon  an  unusually  small  scale  for 
one  of  Shelley's  height.  The  wild  disorder  and 
the  unusual  plenitude  of  his  massed  hair,  glinting 
redly  in  the  light,  made  his  head  seem  normal  in 
size  despite  its  diminutive  proportions.  In  the 
height  of  the  excitement  precipitated  by  the  rush 
of  his  ideas  Shelley  ran  his  hands  through  his 
disordered  locks,  fiercely  but  unconsciously.  The 
result  was  disconcerting,  for  he  tumbled  his  locks 
like  water.  His  features  could  not  be  called  sym- 
metrical. Only  the  mouth  was  quite  regular  in 
outline.  Animation,  enthusiasm,  a  vivid  and 
preternatural  intelligence  flashed  from  every  fea- 
ture. The  moral  expression  vied  with  the  intel- 
lectuality of  this  boyish  face.  The  softness  of 
the  countenance  was  not  less  appealing  than  its 
spirituality  and  its  intelligence. 

The  one  disappointment  in  his  personality  was 
occasioned  by  the  voice.  The  look  denoted  an 
angel  of  peace.  The  voice  betrayed  the  agitation 
of  a  restless  soul.  It  seemed  now  and  then  to  rise 
into  a  scream.  Shrillness,  discordance  and  the 
pipings  of  old  age  seemed  to  blend  themselves  into 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


disharmonies.  Were  it  not  for  the  perpetual  idea- 
tion in  which  he  poured  forth  the  riches  of  his 
mind,  the  voice  of  Shelley  would  have  made  his 
conversation  intolerable.  Only  when  he  per- 
mitted his  tone  to  sink  to  a  note  or  two  above  a 
whisper  did  his  utterance  gain  a  musical  quality. 
Nor  did  this  unpleasing  quality  of  voice  seem 
incongruous  in  one  who  like  Shelley  was  a  com- 
bination of  inexpressible  grace  with  an  incredible 
degree  of  awkwardness. 

Displeasing  as  was  the  tone  in  which  he  now 
spoke  his  listeners  forgot  this  in  the  dart  and  play 
of  the  majestic  blue  eyes.  They  seemed  never 
still  in  his  head.  They  transfixed,  magnetized, 
riveted. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  at  last,  shaking  his  mane, 
"in  the  course  of  our  communication,  to  acquire 
that  sobriety  of  spirit  which  is  the  characteristic 
of  true  heroism.  I  have  not  heard  without  bene- 
fit that  Newton  was  a  modest  man.  I  am  not 
ignorant  that  folly  delights  in  forwardness  and 
assumption.  But  I  think  there  is  a  line  to  be 
drawn  between  affectation  of  unpossessed  talents 


64 


And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 

And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 


Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes,  /C  * 

Came  in  slow  pomp ; — the  moving  pomp  might  seem  ^ 

and  the  deceit  of  self  distrust  by  which  much 
power  has  been  lost  to  the  world." 

Knowing  her  father's  contempt  for  all  poetry 
except  the  dramatic,  Mary  essayed  now  to  divert 
the  talk  into  a  more  congenial  channel. 

"Papa  has  himself  condescended  to  verse,"  she 
observed.  "It  was  dramatic." 

The  allusion  did  not  quite  please  the  philoso- 
pher. The  memory  of  his  failure  as  a  writer  for 
the  stage  made  him  wince.  Shelley  burst  forth 
again. 

"That  William  Godwin  should  have  a  deep 
and  earnest  interest  in  my  welfare,"  he  piped, 
"can  but  produce  the  most  intoxicating  sensa- 
tions." 

"You,  my  dear  Shelley,"  observed  the  philoso- 
pher, rubbing  his  smooth  chin  and  introducing  a 
topic  that  haunted  him,  "have  special  motives  for 
wariness  in  deportment.  You  are  at  variance 
with  your  father  and  I  think  you  said  in  one  of 
your  letters  that  he  allows  you  only  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year." 

The  poet  shot  out  his  long  arm. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"You  mistake  me,"  he  cried  in  his  shrill  treble, 
"if  you  think  I  am  angry  with  my  father.  I  have 
ever  been  desirous  of  a  reconciliation  with  him. 
The  price  he  demands  is  a  renunciation  of  my 
opinions  or  at  least  a  subjection  to  conditions 
binding  me  to  act  in  opposition  to  their  very 
spirit." 

Godwin  interrupted  the  flow  of  the  freckled 
poet's  language. 

"Your  father  is  guided  by  consideration  for 
your  welfare,"  he  objected  gravely. 

"It  is  probable  that  my  father  has  acted  for 
my  welfare,"  conceded  Shelley,  who  was  walking 
now  in  hasty  strides  about  the  table,  "but  the 
manner  in  which  he  has  done  so  will  not  allow  me 
to  suppose  that  he  has  felt  for  it  unconnectedly 
with  certain  considerations  of  birth." 

"I  fear,"  sighed  Godwin,  who  was  eating  with 
far  more  relish  than  his  philosophical  temper 
might  have  led  one  to  suspect,  "I  fear  that  early 
authorship  on  the  part  of  an  heir  to  a  great  prop- 
erty is  not  conducive  to  the  domestic  happiness  of 
his  parents." 

j<  ^       Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an 
O  O  autumnal  stream. 


All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought,  fa  « 

From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odour,  and  sweet  sound,  / 

"I  have  a  great  wish  of  adding  to  my  father's 
happiness,"  ran  on  Shelley,  looking  inscrutably 
at  a  pellet,  "because  the  filial  connection  seems  to 
require  it — and  even  to  render  it  as  it  were  more 
particularly  in  my  power.  But  it  is  impossible." 

"Why?" 

The  query  emanated  from  Mrs.  Godwin, 
whose  nerves  were  evidently  upset  by  the  aspect 
and  deportment  of  the  poet. 

"A  little  time  since,"  answered  Shelley,  "my 
father  sent  me  a  letter  through  his  attorney  re- 
newing an  allowance  of  two  hundred  pounds  per 
annum  but  with  the  remark  that  his  sole  reason 
for  doing  so  was  to  prevent  my  cheating  stran- 
gers." 

This  speech  was  so  obviously  bewildering  to 
the  mind  of  Mrs.  Godwin  that  the  poet,  who 
seemed  sensitive  to  the  weather  and  whose  shiver- 
ing fit  was  yet  upon  him,  remarked  it  neverthe- 
less. 

"The  habits  of  thinking  of  my  father  and  myself 
never  coincided,"  he  proceeded.  "Passive  obedi- 
ence was  inculcated  and  enforced  in  my  child- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


hood.  I  was  required  to  love  because  it  was  my 
duty  to  love." 

"And  wasn't  it?"  Mrs.  Godwin  asked  blankly 
in  a  tone  of  some  horror. 

"Coercion  obviated  its  own  intention,"  retorted 
Shelley.  "No  sooner  had  I  formed  the  principles 
which  I  now  profess  than  I  was  anxious  to  dis- 
seminate their  benefits." 

"Queer  principles !"  commented  the  lady.  She 
placed  her  knife  and  fork  upon  the  plate  before 
her  and  sank  back  in  her  chair,  contemplating  the 
poet  through  her  immense  spectacles  with  a  dis- 
favour perfectly  obvious  but  to  which  he  seemed 
indifferent. 

"Your  husband's  work  on  political  justice  first 
opened  my  eyes  and  mind  to  extensive  views," 
Shelley  rejoined,  directing  his  great  blue  eyes  at 
the  fat  little  woman.  "Godwin's  tremendous 
work  materially  influenced  my  character  and  I 
arose  from  its  perusal  a  wiser  and  a  better  man.  I 
was  no  longer  the  votary  of  romance.  Till  then  I 
had  existed  in  an  ideal  world — now  I  found  that  in 
this  universe  of  ours  was  enough  to  excite  the  in- 

S  O        Lamented  Adonais.    Morning  sought 

O  O        Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 


Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground,         /C  f^ 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day;  ^  7 

terest  of  the  heart,  enough  to  employ  the  discus- 
sions of  reason.  I  beheld,  in  short,  that  I  had 
duties  to  perform." 

The  shrill  voice  had  not  died  away  when  Mary 
stole  a  look  at  Fanny.  That  young  lady's  black 
eyes  were  fixed  in  a  species  of  fascination  upon  the 
shivering  poet  by  the  fire. 

Shelley  had  not  even  approached  the  large  but 
damaged  old  chair  set  for  him  at  the  table  by  the 
thoughtful  spouse  of  Godwin.  The  poet  was  al- 
ready crumbling  a  great  lump  of  bread  which  he 
had  picked  up  from  a  plate.  The  bread  rapidly 
assumed  the  form  of  little  pellets  under  the  manip- 
ulation of  his  nervous  fingers.  From  time  to  time 
he  shot  a  pellet  of  bread  from  between  his  thumb 
and  forefinger.  His  dexterity  in  this  sport  had 
already  been  discovered  by  little  William,  who 
displayed  no  less  dexterity  in  dodging  the  missiles 
which  from  time  to  time  Shelley  sent  in  his  direc- 
tion. Mary  was  less  experienced  in  an  art  made 
necessary  by  intimacy  with  Shelley.  She  did  not 
dodge  in  time  to  escape  the  collision  of  a  pellet 
with  her  nose.  Little  William  laughed  aloud  but 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


he  was  speedily  checked  by  a  stern  look  from  his 
father.  No  one  paid  the  slightest  heed  to  Shel- 
ley's curious  diversion.  It  was  too  well  known 
for  remark. 

As  he  munched  the  bread  in  his  mouth,  and  de- 
voured the  copy  of  Ariosto  with  his  eyes,  or  rushed 
hither  and  thither  in  his  speechmaking,  Shelley 
extracted  from  a  pocket  of  his  waistcoat  an  oc- 
casional raisin.  This,  with  the  bread,  comprized 
the  meal.  Little  by  little  a  ring  of  bread  crumbs 
formed  here  and  there  on  the  floor  as  he  began 
devouring  this  improvized  dinner.  The  raisins 
he  was  wont  to  purchase  at  some  mean  little  shop 
in  the  course  of  his  walks  abroad.  He  preferred 
shops  of  the  poorer  sort  because  in  them  he  was 
waited  upon  more  speedily.  The  supply  of  rai- 
sins carried  loose  in  his  waistcoat  pockets  seemed 
just  at  present  inexhaustible.  Nor  did  he  divert 
himself  with  the  shying  of  his  bread  pellets  at 
ordinary  mortals.  William  Godwin  narrowly  es- 
caped the  indignity  of  a  shot.  The  philosopher 
had  learned  from  experience  to  tolerate  these  vaga- 
ries. They  were  as  much  an  accomplishment  of 

Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
j  O       Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 


And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  ^i  T 

in  their  dismay.  / 


Shelley's  as  was  his  knowledge  of  Aeschylus. 
When  he  was  eating  his  bread  alone  over  his  book 
he  would  shoot  his  pellets  about  the  solitude  of 
his  chamber,  taking  aim  at  a  picture  or  a  statue  or 
any  other  object  that  attracted  his  attention. 

There  was  meat  on  Godwin's  table  as  inevitably 
as  there  were  raisins  in  Shelley's  pocket.  Of  the 
meat,  however,  Godwin  ate  sparingly.  The 
sherry  poured  out  for  his  wife  did  not  meet  with 
his  disapproval.  He  tasted  a  glass  with  evident 
relish,  nor  did  he  refuse  the  second  helping  of 
the  golden  liquor  to  which  Mrs.  Godwin  treated 
him. 

"I  can  not  help  considering  you  as  a  friend 
and  adviser,"  resumed  Shelley,  discharging  a 
freshly  made  pellet  at  the  head  of  Mrs.  Godwin 
as  she  poured  the  glittering  sherry  into  the  glass, 
but  confining  his  remarks  to  her  distinguished 
husband.  "This  circumstance  must  generate  a 
degree  of  familiarity  which  will  cease  to  appear 
surprising  to  you  when  the  intimacy  I  had  ac- 
quired with  your  writings  so  much  preceded  the  in- 
formation which  led  to  my  first  letter." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Being  yet  a  scholar,"  replied  Godwin  with  his 
characteristic  majesty — as  essential  in  his  deport- 
ment as  was  timidity  in  Fanny's,  "you  ought  to 
have  no  intolerable  itch  to  become  a  teacher." 

Shelley  thrust  the  copy  of  Ariosto  into  his 
pocket  and  arose  from  the  floor  upon  which  he 
had  sprawled. 

"Into  whatever  company  I  go,"  he  observed, 
"I  have  introduced  my  own  sentiments,  partly  with 
a  view,  if  they  were  erroneous,  that  unforeseen 
elucidations  might  rectify  them." 

He  passed  his  fingers  again  through  his  locks, 
until  their  appearance  was  singularly  wild  and 
rough. 

"Your  toleration  of  mind,  my  dear  Shelley," 
Godwin  observed,  after  a  sharp  look  at  Mary, 
who  was  revealing  some  amusement  at  the  eccen- 
tricities of  the  poet's  behaviour,  "must  ever  be  the 
foundation  of  your  intellectual  greatness." 

"One  whose  mind  is  strongly  imbued — " 

But  Shelley  was  cut  short  in  this  sentence  by 
the  sound  of  some  person's  entry  into  the  shop. 
Fanny  arose  at  once.  Facing  her  as  she  walked 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 
I  2       And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay, 


And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains,  p*  *\ 

Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green  spray,        /  j 


into  the  Juvenile  Library  she  beheld  a  smart-look- 
ing little  man  attired  in  a  military  cloak. 

"I  have  come  to  see  Godwin."  He  announced 
that  intention  in  anything  but  a  friendly  tone. 

"La,  Mr.  Hookham,"  said  Fanny,  affecting  a 
boldness  and  an  ease  she  was  far  from  feeling, 
"my  poor  father  can  not  be  disturbed  today." 

"I  want  my  money." 

The  stranger  spoke  surlily. 

"You  shall  have  your  money,"  said  Fanny 
firmly. 

"When?" 

The  man  was  incredulous. 

"My  father  is  negotiating  a  loan  from  Mr.  Shel- 
ley. Come  back  next  week." 

"Look  you  here,"  cried  the  little  man  with  a 
frown,  "I  came  for  my  money.  Do  you  want  to 
see  your  pa  in  a  jail*?" 

Fanny  had  no  such  desire.  She  said  so  tim- 
idly. 

"I've  heard  all  about  that  three  thousand  pound 
your  father  is  to  get  from  Mr.  Shelley,"  added 
Hookham.  "I'm  getting  doubtful  about  it. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Your  mad  Mr.  Shelley  had  best  be  quick  or  I'll 
have  the  law  on  Godwin." 

He  strode  out.  Fanny  glanced  after  his  fig- 
ure receding  in  the  rain.  Turning  to  go  back  to 
the  dining  room,  she  found  herself  in  the  arms  of 
the  poet. 

"My  dear  friend,"  whispered  Shelley,  kissing 
her  pock-marked  face,  "may  I  still  call  you  so  or 
have  I  forfeited  by  the  equivocality  of  my  con- 
duct the  esteem  of  the  wise  and  virtuous?" 

Fanny  placed  a  hand  upon  his  lips.  But  he 
withdrew  it  and  held  her  despite  her  efforts. 

"Have  I  disgraced  the  professions  of  that  vir- 
tue which  has  been  the  idol  of  my  love?" 

She  made  no  further  resistance.  Her  head  sank 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"Bysshe,"  she  whispered,  "I  am  to  go  away. 
They  are  sending  me  to  Wales." 

The  poet's  large  blue  eyes  rolled  and  roamed 
the  book  shelves. 

"How  are  we  the  slaves  of  circumstance,"  he 
cried.  "How  I  curse  their  bondage." 

He  kissed  her  again. 

Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day ; 
J  A       Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 


Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away  «  p» 

Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds:— a  drear  /  ^) 


"You  forget  that  you  were  married  not  long 
ago,"  she  observed  with  rather  more  tartness  than 
her  nature  possessed.  "Not  satisfied  with  making 
Harriet  your  wife  once  you  must  do  it  twice." 

"It  was  unavoidable,"  pleaded  Shelley.  "You 
know  what  I  must  do  for  Godwin.  I  can  get  no 
money  from  the  Jews  if  there  be  a  doubt  about  my 
marriage." 

"Will  the  Jews  lend  only  to  married 
men*?" 

"When  a  post  obit  is  in  question,  the  law  pre- 
supposes a  valid  marriage.  Mine  was  contracted 
in  Scotland  under  doubtful  circumstances." 

"But  you  don't  believe  in  marriage,  Bysshe." 

He  ran  his  hands  through  his  locks  and  again 
gazed  wildly  about  the  book  shelves. 

"You  inquire  how  I,  an  atheist,  chose  to  sub- 
ject myself  to  the  ceremony  of  marriage,"  he 
whispered.  "Why  I  united  myself  thus  to  a 
female,  as  it  is  not  in  itself  immoral,  can  make 
no  diminution  in  my  rectitude.  Yet  how  useless 
to  attempt  by  singular  examples  to  renovate  the 
face  of  society." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


He  was  interrupted  by  the  entry  of  little  Wil- 
liam from  the  dining  room. 

"Here,  you  two,"  called  the  boy.  "My 
mamma  wants  you  back  at  once." 

Fanny  freed  her  arm  from  Shelley's  and  with 
many  blushes  retraced  her  steps  to  the  table. 
Shelley  lingered  to  finger  a  volume  of  Aeschylus, 
which  he  bore  back  with  him  to  the  room  in  the 
rear. 

"I  read  Locke,  Hume,  Reid  and  whatever 
metaphysics  come  in  my  way,"  he  said  to  Godwin, 
holding  up  the  book,  "without,  however,  renounc- 
ing poetry,  an  attachment  which  will  character- 
ize all  my  changes." 

Godwin  had  placed  his  knife  and  fork  upon  the 
plate  in  front  of  him  with  an  air  of  having  finished 
his  frugal  meal.  He  listened  without  talking  for 
some  little  time.  Gradually  his  big  bald  head  be- 
gan to  nod.  In  no  long  time  he  was  plunged  into 
the  profoundest  slumber.  His  heavy  head  fell 
forward  upon  his  chest.  The  body  manifested  a 
tendency  to  droop  forward  as  well.  It  seemed 
more  than  once  as  if  he  must  collapse  from  the 


76 


Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all 
the  woodmen  hear. 


Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  ^i « 

threw  down  /   / 


chair  to  the  floor.  He  snored  with  energy. 
From  this  sleep  he  emerged  suddenly  and  glanced 
about  him  with  sharp  eyes.  No  one  at  the  table 
made  the  least  sign  of  having  perceived  the  slum- 
bers of  the  great  philosopher.  His  wife  had  been 
busily  decocting  a  great  urn  of  tea.  She  poured 
the  brew  into  a  huge  cup.  The  beverage  was  very 
strong  and  smelled  horribly.  Godwin  sniffed  the 
odor  and  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  Then  he  applied  the 
drink  to  his  wide  lips  and  slowly  absorbed  it  with 
relish. 

Godwin,  making  a  dessert  of  one  large  apple, 
which  he  cut  solemnly  into  slices  and  devoured  as 
solemnly,  cleared  his  throat  for  some  reply  to 
Shelley's  last  remark.  His  purpose  was  frus- 
trated by  so  prosaic  a  circumstance  as  the  door 
of  the  shop.  This  was  heard  once  more  to  creak 
upon  its  complaining  hinges.  They  all  listened. 
Fanny  had  already  stepped  in  the  direction  of  the 
Juvenile  Library  when  a  loud  clear  voice  an- 
nounced the  identity  of  the  newcomer. 

"It's  I,"  proclaimed  the  rich,  high  voice,  "I've 
come  to  see  you  and  to  find  how  you  do." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


There  was  a  scurry  of  dainty  feet,  a  laugh  that 
rang  like  a  chime,  a  swirl  of  skirts  and  a  young 
woman  bounded  into  the  room  accompanied  by  a 
perfume  of  roses. 


Q        Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were, 
I  O       Or  they  dead  leaves ;  since  her  delight  is  flown 


J 


IV 

THE  ROMANTIC 

"  "W  ANE!"  cried  Mrs.  Godwin. 

Her  fat  chin  creased  itself  into  the 
broadest  of  smiles.     Her  eyes  shone  with 
tears  through  her  spectacles. 

"Come  and  kiss  me,  you  naughty  girl !" 
"How  often,  Ma,"  exclaimed  the  young  lady, 
ignoring  her  mother's  injunction,  "how  often  have 
I  bade  you  not  to  call  me  by  that  hateful  name 
of  Jane.  My  name  is  Claire.  Miss  Claire  Clair- 
mont,  if  you  please,  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  at 
your  service." 

She  made  them  all  a  little  curtesy.  Dark- 
haired  and  dark-eyed  as  Fanny  had  been  made 
by  Nature,  this  girl  was  even  darker.  It  was  an 
almost  Oriental  type  of  odalisque  voluptuousness 
which  found  expression  in  her  beauty.  She  was 
a  few  months  younger  than  Mary,  a  step  daugh- 

For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year? 

To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear  j  O 


Shelley's 


ter  of  Godwin's,  moreover,  through  his  marriage 
with  the  former  Mrs.  Clairmont.  The  responsi- 
bilities assumed  by  the  philosopher  when  he  en- 
tered the  wedded  state  a  second  time  had  em- 
braced the  two  children  of  the  widow.  One  of 
these,  Charles,  was  at  present  in  a  situation  at 
Edinburgh,  where  the  interest  of  Godwin  had 
procured  him  a  post  in  the  great  publishing  es- 
tablishment of  Constable.  Claire,  the  sister  of 
this  youth,  had  the  temperament  of  the  artist  to 
her  finger  tips.  The  quickness  of  her  intelligence 
announced  itself  in  the  eyes.  The  sensibilities 
of  the  girl  were  reflected  in  the  changing  expres- 
sions of  her  face,  as  she  flashed  beady  glances 
upon  Godwin,  upon  Shelley,  upon  her  mother, 
upon  Fanny  and  upon  little  William,  to  whom 
now  she  gave  a  kiss.  Her  gifts  were  an  inherit- 
ance from  a  dead  father.  He  must  have  been 
witty  as  well  as  wilful.  Claire  was  devoted  to 
music,  to  poetry,  to  all  that  beautified  existence. 
The  very  tones  of  her  eager  voice  revealed  the 
brilliance  of  her  talents,  the  ardour  of  a  being  who 
was  yet  destined  to  bear  a  daughter  to  Byron. 

Q  Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 

OO       Thou,  Adonais:  wan  they  stand  and  sere 


Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth,  Q  T 

With  dew  all  turned  to  tears ;  odour,  to  sighing  ruth. 

The  conversation  had  ceased  in  the  pleasurable 
distraction  of  contemplating  Claire's  lively  per- 
son. There  was  an  indescribable  romance  in  ev- 
ery gesture,  in  every  word,  in  every  expression 
of  hers,  and  it  held  the  household  captive.  The 
sharpness  of  Claire's  temper  and  the  generosity 
of  Claire's  nature  showed  themselves  in  the  quiv- 
ering nostril  of  this  girl.  The  temper  was  too 
obviously  not  under  perfect  control.  The  fancy 
was  a  vagrant  one.  Here  was  a  nature  prone  to 
ask  too  much  of  life,  ready  to  fret  over  much,  avid 
of  pleasure,  with  the  instincts  of  genius  but  desti- 
tute, it  might  be  feared,  of  strong  principle. 

Godwin  studied  his  stepdaughter  with  calculat- 
ing scrutiny.  He  knew  human  nature  too  little 
upon  its  emotional  side  to  feel  at  all  easy  in  the 
presence  of  so  volatile  a  spirit.  But  there  was 
something  in  his  nature  which  responded  to  the 
appeal  of  this  girl.  He  greeted  her  with  a  smile. 

"My  child,"  he  remarked  sedately,  "have  you 
been  to  Drury  Lane?" 

"Have  I  been  to  Drury  Lane?  Indeed,  Sir,  I 
have  been  nowhere  else  since  I  left  this  house 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


some  three  weeks  last  Easter  day.  I  am  to  have 
an  engagement." 

"Jane!" 

The  forbidden  name  from  the  lips  of  her  mother 
drew  a  sharp  glance  from  the  young  lady.  Mrs. 
Godwin  hastened  to  correct  herself. 

"Claire!"  she  cried.  "I  know  the  child  was 
called  Clara  Mary  Jane  but  I  always  forget  it. 
I  shall  never  do  so  again." 

Mollified  by  the  pledge,  Claire  gave  her  mother 
a  kiss  upon  the  spectacles.  Godwin,  having  made 
his  speech  of  welcome  and  finished  his  apple,  rose 
majestically.  Shelley,  who  had  been  chewing 
raisins  and  reading  Aeschylus  by  the  kitchen  fire, 
darted  from  the  room  and  up  the  stairs.  He  ar- 
rived in  the  study  ahead  of  the  philosopher  he 
revered  and  held  the  door  open  for  him. 

"My  dear  Shelley,"  began  Godwin,  seating 
himself  at  the  desk  opposite  the  portrait  of  Mary 
Wollstonecraft,  "you  will  not  misunderstand  me, 
I  am  sure,  if  I  say  I  must  send  our  dear  Fanny 
away  on  your  account." 

Shelley  thrust  a  finger  into  his  waistcoat  pocket 

8  Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale, 

2*        Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain; 


Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 


for  a  raisin  and  finding  none,  gazed  in  distress  at 
the  man  who  had  opened  to  him  the  great  book  of 
life. 

"Fanny !"  He  repeated  the  name  in  a  tone  of 
consternation,  his  flow  of  words  being  dammed 
for  once.  "In  Wales?" 

"Wales,"  repeated  Godwin,  his  wide  thin  lips 
repressing  a  faint  smile.  "I'm  afraid,  my  dear 
Shelley,  she  is  falling  in  love  with  you." 

"Fanny !"  repeated  Shelley  in  a  voice  that  was 
as  tragic  as  Kemble's  in  a  Shakespearean  part, 
"she  must  be  to  me  for  ever  the  sweetest  of 
sisters." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Godwin  rejoined,  rising  from 
his  desk  and  pacing  the  room,  "but  I  fear  you  do 
not  altogether  realize  how  profoundly  your  poet- 
ical nature  impresses  the  feminine  temperament. 
Remember  Miss  Kitchener." 

"Miss  Kitchener!  She  is  a  woman  of  desper- 
ate views  and  of  dreadful  passions,  but  of  cool 
and  undeviating  revenge.  She  can  assume  the 
character  of  Christian  or  of  infidel  as  suits  her 
purpose." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"You  seem  to  have  been  entirely  deceived  in 
her  character  and  in  the  republicanism  of  her 
views,"  conceded  Godwin.  "Your  wife  intimates 
as  much." 

"To  you*?"  asked  Shelley. 

"To  a  mutual  friend,"  rejoined  the  champion 
of  political  justice.  "Miss  Hitchener  built  all 
her  hopes  upon  separating  your  wife  and  your- 
self." 

"She  had  the  artfulness  to  say  I  was  in  love 
with  her!"  Shelley  was  indignant  at  the  idea. 
"I  saw  her  but  twice  before  my  marriage." 

"I  fear  that  ladies  do  not  always  understand 
your  intentions,"  said  Godwin,  sighing  again. 
The  feminine  nature  was  too  abstruse  a  puzzle  for 
his  mind.  He  frankly  gave  it  up.  "I  have  for 
that  reason  among  others  resolved  to  despatch 
poor  Fanny  to  Wales." 

Shelley  was  off  now  upon  another  scent.  He 
had  gone  to  the  shelves  of  books  ranged  in  solem- 
nity against  the  walls  of  Godwin's  study. 

"Southey,  the  pot  poet,"  he  now  observed,  re- 


84 


Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  complain, 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest, 


As  Albion  wails  for  thee;  the  curse  of  Cain  Q  £ 

Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent  breast,  ^ 

turning  to  the  desk  with  a  volume  of  the  verse 
of  that  genius,  "clung  once  to  principles  both  pure 
and  elevated.  He  is  today  the  paid  champion  of 
every  abuse." 

Godwin  abandoned  the  theme  of  Fanny  in  de- 
spair. 

"Perhaps  the  necessities  of  Southey  account  for 
his  change  of  heart,"  said  the  philosopher  bitterly. 
"I,  too,  know  what  it  is  to  be  driven  by  terrible 
pecuniary  distress." 

"Your  embarrassment  shall  be  relieved,"  cried 
Shelley,  dropping  the  volume  of  Southey  incon- 
tinently upon  the  floor.  "I  have  written  my 
father  on  the  subject  of  money." 

Godwin's  lined  face  grew  eager. 

"My  dear  Shelley,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  gener- 
ous of  you!  Could  you  raise  anything  upon  a 
post  obit^  now  that  your  marriage  has  been  vali- 
dated?" 

Shelley  paced  the  room  in  his  turn. 

"In  my  letter  to  my  father,"  he  confessed,  "I 
stated  plainly  that  the  posture  of  my  affairs  is 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


too  critical  to  longer  delay  the  raising  of  money 
by  the  sale  of  post  obit  bonds  to  a  considerable 
amount." 

"Has  that  letter  been  answered?" 

"I  am  expecting  the  reply  momently.  I  told 
my  father  about  the  vast  sacrifices  which  money 
lenders  require." 

"Your  grandfather — what  will  he  be  likely  to 
do?" 

Godwin's  eyes  studied  the  freckled  face  of  the 
young  poet  as  a  pike  might  contemplate  a  minnow 
in  a  pool. 

"My  grandfather  must  perceive  that  his  hopes 
of  perpetuating  the  integrity  of  the  estate  will 
be  frustrated  by  neglecting  to  relieve  my  necessi- 
ties." 

Godwin  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"My  dear  Shelley,"  he  cried  with  unusual 
warmth,  "you  are  my  saviour." 

Godwin  took  from  a  drawer  of  the  mahogany 
table  the  diary  in  which  he  entered  so  punctili- 
ously the  slightest  detail  of  his  daily  life.  As 
the  most  methodical  of  men,  he  never  received  a 

Q  X       And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was 
O  O  its  earthly  guest ! 


Ah,  woe  is  me!     Winter  is  come  and  gone,  Q  rj 

But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year;  / 

visit  or  paid  one,  never  read  a  book  or  bor- 
rowed one,  never  received  a  letter  or  sent  one 
without  effecting  a  corresponding  contribution 
to  the  wealth  of  detail  heaped  up  in  his  intermin- 
able diary.  The  notes  were  all  made  in  the  neat- 
est of  hands  and  in  the  neatest  of  abbreviations. 
One  unfamiliar  with  his  elliptical  mode  of  ex- 
pression in  this  record  of  his  would  have  found  it 
unreadable,  unintelligible.  The  entries  were  all 
jottings  of  initials  and  dates  with  cryptic  words 
opposite  each.  Into  this  diary  Godwin  now  set 
down  the  details  of  his  financial  arrangement  with 
his  poetical  young  friend.  He  looked  up  with  a 
satisfied  air. 

"My  dear  Shelley,"  he  repeated,  "you  are  my 
saviour." 

Some  consciousness  of  the  insignificance  of  the 
appearance  he  presented  when  upon  his  feet  may 
have  been  responsible  for  the  habit  Godwin  had 
of  sitting  for  ever  at  his  desk.  With  the  great 
picture  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  directly  in  front 
of  him  and  the  bare  wall  behind  him,  William 
Godwin,  in  the  chair  he  occupied  for  so  many 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


hours  daily,  was  an  imposing  spectacle.  He 
looked  the  sage — calm,  deliberate,  profound. 
The  measured  tones  in  which  he  habitually  spoke 
seemed  the  more  impressive  owing  to  his  leonine 
head,  which  towered  above  the  papers  and  notes 
before  him.  The  long  and  lean  hand  he  stretched 
forth  as  he  sat  upright  seemed  to  lend  dignity  and 
massiveness  to  his  seated  aspect.  Not  until  he 
got  reluctantly  upon  his  feet  did  it  become  evident 
that  William  Godwin  was  physically  little.  He 
seemed  a  majestic  head,  imposed  arbitrarily  upon 
a  frame  not  weighty  enough  to  support  it.  He 
acquired  when  standing  an  insignificance  of  man- 
ner and  of  speech  even  which  destroyed  whatever 
moral  effect  he  may  have  had  upon  the  admiring 
Shelley. 

The  poet  looked  down  from  his  superior  height 
into  the  eyes  of  the  smaller  man. 

"Why,  my  dear  Godwin,"  he  said  in  his  low- 
est tone,  "will  you  send  poor  Fanny  into  Wales?" 

"Have  you  not  yourself  sent  us  the  most  glow- 
ing accounts  of  that  country,  its  mountains  and 
streams?" 


The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone: 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  re-appear; 


Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Season's  bier;       C  /-v 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake,  7 

Shelley's  face  lighted: 

"Wales!"  he  cried  aloud,  waving  an  arm  to  the 
ceiling.  "Never  can  I  view  its  scenery,  moun- 
tains and  rocks,  seeming  to  form  a  barrier  around 
its  repose,  without  associating  your  greatness  with 
the  idea." 

"Fanny  will  take  no  harm  there." 

"I  fear  she  may — alone.  Wait  until  I  visit 
that  sanctuary  once  more  with  Harriet  upon  a 
new  honeymoon." 

Godwin  hesitated. 

"I  will  speak  to  Mary,"  he  said  slowly.  "She 
understands  her  sister  best." 


Elopement 


MARY  TAKES  A  HAND 

THAT  confidence  in  Mary's  judgment 
which  Godwin  had  expressed  so  delib- 
erately to  his  young  friend  Shelley  was 
not  at  all  wanting  in  herself.  She  had  spent  the 
interval  consecrated  to  dinner  in  careful  study  of 
Fanny's  face.  During  the  conversation  between 
her  father  and  the  poet,  Mary  noted  each  ex- 
pression on  the  girl's  changing  brow.  She  had 
arrived  at  certain  conclusions  of  her  own.  These 
she  was  now  imparting  to  Fanny  in  the  solitude 
of  the  kitchen.  This  spacious  place  was  now  un- 
tenanted  with  the  exception  of  the  two  young 
ladies.  Mrs.  Godwin  had  gone  to  her  chair  in 
the  Juvenile  Library.  She  was  casting  up  sun- 
dry accounts  and  supplying  the  wants  of  stray 
patrons. 

There  was  no  one  to  wash  the  dishes  but  Fanny. 

And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere; 
O  O       And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 


Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of 
their  trance  awake. 


This  function  was  undertaken  by  the  pockmarked 
girl  the  moment  the  others  had  gone.  William 
was  again  at  the  day  school.  Claire  had  ascended 
to  her  room.  Mary  sat  at  a  table  near  the  win- 
dow. 

"I  declare,  Fanny,"  Mary  began  her  attack,  as 
she  unbound  her  long  tresses  and  worked  at  them 
with  a  brush,  "I  am  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  the 
same  room  with  you  and  that  mad  Shelley." 

Fanny  had  poured  the  hot  water  into  the  dish- 
pan.  She  confronted  her  stepsister — or  foster 
sister,  whichever  it  was — with  a  look  of  dismay 
upon  her  whitened  features. 

"Mad  Shelley?'  she  echoed.  "He's  not  mad, 
Mary." 

"Not  mad!"  voiced  Mary,  in  scorn.  "Dare 
you  tell  me  that  a  man  who  has  lived  upon 
laudanum  all  his  life  is  not  mad?" 

"Don't  be  silly,  my  dear." 

"Don't  set  me  the  example,  my  dear.  I  de- 
clare the  whole  house  is  talking  of  the  way  you 
follow  Shelley  about." 

Fanny  crimsoned  through  the  markings  upon 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


her  plain  face.  She  said  nothing  but  piled  the 
greasy  plates  into  the  battered  pan  before  her. 

"I  tell  you,  Shelley's  mad,"  reiterated  the  angry 
Mary,  brushing  her  tresses  more  vigorously  than 
ever.  "Hasn't  he  been  cast  off  by  his  people  for 
a  madman?" 

Fanny  retreated  into  the  little  garden  behind 
the  house  to  get  cold  water  at  the  pump.  She 
seldom  dared  oppose  her  energetic  and  self-willed 
sister.  The  difference  in  their  dispositions  was 
like  that  between  the  lion  and  the  kitten.  When 
she  had  filled  a  basin  with  the  water,  Fanny  re- 
turned to  the  dishes.  She  set  fiercely  to  work. 
First  she  threw  a  piece  of  refuse  meat  at  the  cat  in 
the  garden  through  the  window  beside  which  her 
work  was  done. 

"So  you  will  not  answer  me,  Fanny*?" 

"What  is  there  to  say,  dear?' 

"Don't  dear  me.  I  don't  want  any  one  to 
dear  me  who  is  thinking  of  eloping  with  a  mar- 
ried man." 

"Mary!" 

"It's  true.     I  know  your  plans.     You  think 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill 
O  2  and  Ocean 


A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 


poor  Papa  will  not  dare  object  because  he  needs 
Shelley's  money.  Then  my  poor  Papa  will  be 
disgraced  in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

Quivering  in  every  fibre  of  her  frame  at  this 
series  of  insults,  Fanny  quitted  the  sink  where  she 
had  so  industriously  scoured  the  kettle  and  strode 
to  the  great  cupboard  at  the  other  end  of  the 
kitchen.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  These 
she  wiped  away  with  the  dishcloth,  an  article 
which  often  did  duty  with  her  as  a  handkerchief. 
Kneeling  on  the  floor,  Fanny,  exposing  the  worn 
soles  of  a  pair  of  Mrs.  Clairemont's  old  boots 
which  she  now  wore,  studied  the  collection  of 
cutlery.  It  was  a  melancholy  disarray  of  carving 
knives,  barber's  shears  and  table  forks  at  which 
she  pretended  to  gaze.  It  was  characteristic  of 
the  Godwin  household  to  live  amid  relics  of  some- 
body's former  grandeur.  The  table  on  which  the 
family  dined  belonged  years  before  to  an  admirer 
of  the  author  of  "Political  Justice"  who  had  left 
it  to  his  favourite  author  in  his  will.  The  cutlery 
seemed  to  have  descended  from  some  not  less  re- 
mote antiquity,  as  did  the  dishes.  It  was  the 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


function  of  Fanny  to  guard  these  treasures  and 
preserve  them  from  the  rust  that  corrupts. 

"How  can  you  think  so  meanly  of  Shelley*?" 

Fanny  had  regained  control  of  her  voice. 
Mary  retorted  hotly. 

"Everybody  thinks  meanly  of  him  unless  it  be 
those  who  excuse  him  for  being  mad.  He  got 
twenty  pounds  from  Hookham,  the  bookseller,  by 
pretending  that  some  one  had  tried  to  murder  him. 
Do  you  call  that  honesty  or  madness?" 

Fanny  sighed.  For  an  instant  her  black  eyes 
glanced  about  the  meanly  equipped  kitchen,  with 
its  rows  of  cracked  pots  upon  the  dresser  and  its 
yellowing  dishes  ranged  along  the  walls  on  nails. 
There  was  a  solitary  ornament  in  this  place — a 
huge  portrait  in  oils  of  the  Prince  Regent,  sent  to 
Godwin  by  some  freak  and  relegated  to  the  ig- 
nominy of  the  kitchen.  Fanny  fixed  an  eye  dis- 
consolately upon  this  piece  of  art. 

"Don't  stare  at  that  picture,"  snapped  Mary. 
"Answer  me!" 

"You  mean  that  Shelley  pretended  he  had  been 
attacked?" 

From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
04       God  dawned  on  Chaos;  in  its  stream  immersed 


The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst; 


"Of  course,  he  pretended.  That  is  Hookham's 
own  belief.  Ask  him." 

As  Hookham  was  one  of  Godwin's  most  press- 
ing creditors  the  advice  was  not  practicable. 
Fanny  refrained  from  pointing  this  out,  how- 
ever. 

"Mr.  Shelley  told  me  all  about  the  attack  upon 
him,"  she  said  quietly. 

"And  you  like  a  goose  pretended  to  believe  all 
he  said." 

"I  didn't  pretend.  His  house  was  entered  by 
some  villain." 

Mary  laughed  in  her  peculiar  and  mirthless 
way. 

"I  know  the  story  he  tells,"  she  cried.  "We 
have  our  mad  Mr.  Shelley  coming  down  like  a 
lion  with  his  pistols  in  his  hand.  Shots  are  fired. 
There  is  a  struggle.  The  murderer  runs  away. 
Bah!" 

Mary  had  adjusted  her  coils  of  hair.  She 
looked  up  at  Fanny  and  sneered.  Fanny  grew 
slightly  excited. 

"I  am  sure  Shelley  tells  the  truth,"  she  in- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


sisted.  "Later  in  the  night  they  tried  to  murder 
him  again." 

Again  Mary's  laugh  rang  out  loud  and  clear. 

"He  fled  the  house  next  day  at  sunrise,"  she 
observed  when  her  hilarity  had  abated.  "This 
hero  could  not  remain  on  the  field  of  his 
glory." 

"His  wife  tells  quite  a  different  story." 

Mary  received  this  intelligence  with  more  scorn. 

"Mrs.  Shelley,"  she  exclaimed.  "That  poor 
thing  is  a  mere  child." 

"She  is  her  husband's  worst  enemy  now." 

Fanny  suspended  her  work  on  the  dishes  to 
look  over  at  Mary  while  saying  this.  The  blonde 
girl  stamped  her  foot  impatiently. 

"Then  Mr.  Shelley  tells  you  stories  against  his 
wife.  I  warn  you,  Fanny  this  going  on  with  a 
married  man  can  not  come  to  any  good.  He  lied 
to  you  about  that  attempt  to  murder  him.  Mur- 
der him !" 

Mary  ended  her  speech  in  a  tone  of  such  scorn 
that  Fanny  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  a 
rising  indignation. 


Diffuse  themselves;  and  spend  in  love's  delight, 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 


The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit  tender 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath; 


"There  was  a  second  attack  upon  Mr.  Shelley 
that  night,"  she  blazed  forth.  Her  hands  were 
busy  with  the  dishes  while  her  tongue  ran  on. 
"Mrs.  Shelley  had  gone  back  to  bed  when  she 
heard  pistols  go  off  again.  She  ran  down  and 
saw  Bysshe's  flannel  nightgown  shot  through. 
Thank  Heaven,  the  ball  went  through  the  gown 
and  he  remained  unhurt.  That  was  because 
Bysshe  was  standing  sideways.  Had  he  stood 
fronting  the  window,  the  ball  must  have  killed 
him.  Bysshe  fired  his  pistol  but  it  would  not  go 
off—" 

"Stop  making  a  fool  of  yourself!"  cried  Mary. 
"The  shopkeepers  in  the  town  believed  it  all  part 
of  a  trick  to  let  Shelley  get  away  without  paying 
his  bills." 

"That's  a  lie!"  vociferated  Fanny. 

In  her  eagerness  to  defend  her  friend  she  al- 
lowed a  great  china  platter  to  drop  to  the  floor. 
It  shivered  into  fragments.  Fanny  gazed  for  an 
instant  at  the  ruin  and  then  burst  into  tears. 
She  essayed  to  lift  the  fragments  one  by  one  from 
the  floor.  Suddenly  she  stood  upright.  A  quick 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


fury  was  flaming  in  her  dark  eyes  as  she  turned 
on  Mary. 

"It  is  you  who  are  in  love  with  Shelley !"  cried 
Fanny.  She  forgot  every  restraint  in  the  despera- 
tion to  which  she  was  driven  by  the  taunts  of  her 
tormentor.  "What  if  I  have  allowed  myself  to 
be  moved  by  this  man4?  Do  I  not  live  here  in 
neglect!" 

Mary  had  risen  to  her  feet  at  the  first  sign  of 
Fanny's  loss  of  self  control.  The  blonde  tresses 
of  the  daughter  of  William  Godwin  fell  afresh 
in  their  plenitude  all  over  her  shoulders  until 
they  reached  her  waist.  She  flushed  to  the  very 
summit  of  her  white  forehead.  The  colour  de- 
serted her  face  the  next  instant.  She  stood  con- 
fronting Fanny  in  the  whiteness  of  skin  for  which 
she  was  always  noted. 

There  was  a  glitter  in  her  eye  that  disclosed 
the  spirit  of  the  dead  Mary  Wollstonecraft. 

"You  have  begun,"  said  Mary,  white  with 
passion.  "Go  on." 

"I  will,"  Fanny  cried,  throwing  her  dish  cloth 
upon  the  edge  of  the  dirty  sink  and  wiping  her 


98 


Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendour 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 


And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath ;  /-x  /-x 

Nought  we  know,  dies.  Shall  that  alone  which  knows        /  / 


hands  upon  her  apron.  "For  years  I  have  lived 
here  in  misery.  I  have  never  been  taught  any- 
thing. You  have  been  the  pet  and  the  pam- 
pered one.  You  have  ruled  the  house.  I  have 
been  allowed  to  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  in 
this  kitchen.  Because  I  show  myself  now  and 
then  when  this  Mr.  Shelley  comes,  I  am  brow- 
beaten and  insulted.  And  by  you.  You !  You, 
who  want  him  for  yourself." 

"Are  you  quite  through*?" 

"No.  I  warn  you  that  you  will  be  miserable 
with  Shelley.  I  understand  how  pretty  you  are 
and  how  plain  I  am.  I  know  how  ambitious  you 
are.  Do  you  suppose  I  have  not  studied  you 
when  Shelley  is  here  just  as  you  have  studied 
me4?" 

"Really,  Fanny,  I  must  leave  the  room  if  you 
will  be  so  theatrical." 

"One  warning  I  must  give  you.  There  is  a 
person  here  who  can  take  Shelley  from  you." 

Mary's  grey  eyes  lighted.  The  jealousy  in 
her  soul  was  aflame. 

"Yes?" 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Oh,  don't  play  a  part.  I  know  how  that 
thought  must  rack  you." 

"And  who  could  take  Shelley  from  me*?" 

"Claire!" 

As  the  two  daughters  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft 
confronted  one  another  in  the  crisis  of  this  con- 
test between  them,  the  difference  in  their  char- 
acters as  well  as  in  their  appearance  seemed  mo- 
mentarily extinguished.  It  was  easy  to  see  they 
must  be  children  of  the  same  mother.  Fanny 
seemed  ordinarily  a  living  demonstration  that  her 
father  must  have  had  gentleness,  simplicity  and 
humility  of  heart.  These  qualities  he  certainly 
had  handed  on  to  his  child.  She  never  got  them 
from  the  wild  Mary  Wollstonecraft.  Fanny  had 
her  father's  dark  hair  and  skin.  She  was  a  Woll- 
stonecraft only  in  her  ardour,  suppressed  though 
it  might  be.  Mary  was  a  Wollstonecraft  in  all 
things — self-willed,  imperious,  bent  at  any  cost 
upon  the  accomplishment  of  whatever  design  she 
set  her  heart  upon.  She  had  the  great  advantage 
of  beauty.  Fanny  was  plain  enough  in  all  con- 
science, but  in  contrast  with  her  sister  now  she 


Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
I  O  O       By  sightless  lightning? — the  intense  atom  glows 


A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  TOT 

cold  repose.  M.  \J  1 

seemed  positively  ugly.  A  sense  of  her  own  in- 
capacity to  struggle  against  a  creature  equipped 
for  strife  seemed  now  to  overcome  Fanny.  She 
yielded  to  Mary  as  the  hare  might  yield  to  the 
fox. 

When  Fanny  mentioned  that  name  of  Claire, 
the  two  girls  glared  at  one  another  like  tigresses 
crouched  for  a  spring.  There  was  a  moment  of 
the  most  intense  silence.  Slowly  and  deliberately 
Mary  resumed  her  place  beside  the  worn  kitchen 
table. 

"I  am  afraid  we  have  both  been  too  high 
spirited,  Fanny,"  she  said  at  last.  "Let  us  for- 
get this." 

The  gentle  Fanny  melted  almost  at  once.  A 
reaction  had  set  in.  She  was  once  more  her  meek 
self. 

She  began  to  weep.  Then  she  bethought  her- 
self of  the  broken  dishes.  She  sprang  to  her 
domestic  labours  at  the  sink. 

"Dear  Mary,  forgive  me,"  she  pleaded.  "I 
ought  not  to  have  forgotten  myself.  I  shall  go 
to  Wales." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Why  is  he  living  in  London?" 

Mary's  mind  had  reverted  to  Shelley  the  mo- 
ment her  sister  calmed  down.  Fanny  looked  up 
quickly  from  the  morsels  of  broken  china  in  her 
apron. 

"He  has  quarrelled  with  his  wife  again." 

Fanny  spoke  in  a  subdued  tone.  She  seemed 
half  ashamed  of  mentioning  so  delicate  a  subject. 
Mary  plunged  into  the  topic  boldly. 

"Of  course  he  has  quarrelled  with  his  wife," 
she  assented.  "You  seem  to  hold  her  responsible 
for  that—" 

Fanny  made  a  deprecatory  gesture. 

" — anyhow,"  ran  on  the  other  girl,  "I  am  not 
at  all  disposed  to  censure  Mr.  Shelley.  He  has 
learned  the  pitfalls  surrounding  marriage.  You 
know  and  I  know  that  marriage  is  the  relic  of  a 
political  superstition." 

This  was  a  bit  of  her  father's  philosophy. 

"Our  mother  was  not  married." 

Mary  fired  a  shot  at  poor  Fanny. 

"Our  mother  was  not  married  to  your  father. 
She  was  married  to  mine." 


Alas!  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 


And  grief  itself  be  mortal !     Woe  is  me !  TO"? 

Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we?  of  what  scene  J 


But  Fanny  fired  a  shot  back. 

"Not  until — "  She  had  proceeded  thus  far 
when  she  hesitated. 

"She  was  married  to  my  father  before  I  was 
born,"  concluded  Mary  calmly. 

"Oh,  Mary,"  cried  Fanny,  "you  do  not  mean 
to  censure  our  dear  mother — " 

Mary  laughed  aloud. 

"I  think  it  was  very  foolish  of  my  mother  to 
let  herself  be  duped  by  your  father!" 

The  gentle  Fanny  flared  up. 

"I  think  my  father—" 

Again,  with  the  hesitation  of  her  nature,  she 
dared  not  finish  her  sentence.  Mary  again  rushed 
into  the  breach. 

"You  mean  that  your  father  was  as  good  as  my 
father.  Now,  Fanny,  you  know  well  that  your 
father  did  not  treat  our  mother  with  anything 
like  the  generosity  of  Godwin.  Godwin,  to  be 
sure,  is  my  father.  Gilbert  Imlay  was  yours. 
You  feel  that  your  father  was  a  better  man  than 
my  father." 

"Each  loved  our  mother." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Fanny  said  this  with  her  usual  sweetness  of 
manner.  The  remark  displeased  Mary. 

"I  wish  you  would  not  speak  of  your  father 
loving  my  mother,"  she  pouted.  "I  am  sure  it 
was  most  villainous  of  him  to  desert  her.  She 
tried  to  drown." 

"He  wanted  her  back,"  said  Fanny.  "Godwin 
would  not  let  her  go." 

The  attention  of  the  girls  was  suddenly  diverted 
by  a  loud  banging  noise  in  the  regions  overhead. 
There  was  a  furious  clatter  of  descending  feet 
upon  the  stairs.  The  kitchen  door  flew  violently 
open.  Shelley  rushed  in,  wild,  disheveled,  breath- 
less. The  copy  of  Aeschylus  was  under  his  arm. 
He  made  for  the  fire  and  sprawled  at  full  length 
before  it,  not  addressing  a  word  to  the  girls. 
They  allowed  him  to  make  himself  comfortable 
before  the  blaze.  For  nearly  ten  minutes  he 
sprawled  reading,  turning  a  page  now  and  then 
with  complete  absorption  in  the  words  of  his 
author. 

"You  are  silent." 

It  was  the  first  word  spoken  since  he  made 


The  actors  or  spectators?    Great 
and  mean 


Meet  massed  in   death,  who  lends  what  life  T  O  C 

must  borrow  i) 


his  abrupt  appearance.  Mary  smiled  at  him. 
Fanny  was  still  busying  herself  about  the  pots 
and  pans.  She  left  the  burden  of  conducting  the 
conversation  to  her  sister.  Shelley  stretched  his 
long  limbs  and  ran  a  finger  through  his  locks. 

"I  have  long  been  convinced,"  he  began,  "of 
the  eventual  omnipotence  of  mind  over  matter." 

Mary  again  smiled  sweetly  into  his  eyes.  She 
was  obviously  overwhelmed  by  the  profound  wis- 
dom of  this  reflection. 

"La,  Mr.  Shelley,"  she  said,  "you  talk  over 
our  heads.  How  should  we,  poor  things  that  we 
are,  understand  the  language  of  a  philosopher?" 

Shelley  leaped  to  his  feet  and  raced  madly 
into  the  yard,  cavorting  in  the  sunshine.  Then 
he  flew  back  to  the  kitchen  fire,  exclaiming,  as  he 
warmed  his  hands : 

"I  feel  a  sickening  distrust  when  I  see  all  that 
I  had  considered  good,  great  or  imitable  fall 
around  me  into  the  gulf  of  error." 

Mary's  face  assumed  a  shocked  expression. 

"Are  you  speaking  of  my  father,  sir?" 

"To    William    Godwin,"    retorted    the    poet 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


warmly,  "I  must  ever  look  with  real  respect  and 
veneration  as  the  regulator  and  former  of  my 
mind." 

Mary  was  about  to  proffer  some  remark  but 
Shelley  ran  on  still. 

"That  he,  as  a  man,  should  be  my  friend  and 
my  advisor,  the  moderator  of  my  enthusiasm,  the 
personal  exciter  and  strengthener  of  my  virtuous 
habits — all  this  was  more  than  I  dared  to  trust 
myself  to  hope." 

He  took  a  raisin  from  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
tossed  it  lightly  into  the  air  and  caught  it  dex- 
terously in  his  mouth  as  it  descended.  For  a  min- 
ute he  chewed  the  morsel  reflectively  and  at  last 
resumed  his  prostrate  position  in  front  of  the  fire. 
There  he  turned  the  leaves  of  his  Greek  author 
for  so  long  without  speaking  that  Mary,  who 
had  exchanged  a  mischievous  glance  with  Fanny, 
could  tolerate  the  silence  no  longer. 

"Pray,  Mr.  Shelley,"  she  began,  "do  you  have 
no  principles  but  those  you  derive  from  my 
father?" 

"My  mind  has  been  formed  by  the  precepts  of 

—        /£      Ai  l°ng  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green 
J.  O  \J       Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow, 


Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  T  O  *7 

wake  year  to  sorrow.  / 


Mary  Wollstonecraft,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his 
feet  with  the  swiftness  of  an  acrobat.  "That 
I  should  be  made  acquainted  with  two  of  the 
daughters  of  that  heroic  woman  is  the  highest 
privilege  of  my  soul.  I  worship  the  memory  of 
Mary  Wollstonecraft." 

Mary  sighed.  There  was  a  heaving  of  her 
bosom  and  a  flutter  of  her  pretty  eyelids. 

"I  at  least  am  unworthy  to  be  the  child  of  that 
heroic  being,"  she  observed,  taking  out  a  dainty 
piece  of  linen  and  applying  it  to  her  eyes. 

"I  love  you  more  than  any  relation,"  said 
Shelley,  "for  being  the  daughter  of  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft. I  profess  you  are  the  sister  of  my 
soul." 

He  looked  across  the  kitchen  to  where  Fanny 
was  busily  employed  at  the  sink.  She  did  not 
look  up.  Shelley  proceeded. 

"I  think  the  component  parts  of  that  soul  of 
mine  must  undergo  dissolution  before  its  sympa- 
thies with  you  can  perish." 

"But  we  are  not  really  relations,  Mr.  Shelley. 
Pray  recollect  that,  sir." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Not  relations  through  the  tie  of  consanguin- 
ity," conceded  the  poet,  eagerly.  "But  what  are 
ties  of  that  nature  compared  with  the  tie  that  binds 
soul  to  soul?" 

"The  marriage  tie?"  inquired  Mary. 

"The  marriage  tie,"  echoed  Shelley  in  scorn. 
"Marriage  is  monopolizing,  exclusive,  jealous. 
The  tie  which  binds  it  bears  the  same  relation  to 
friendship — in  which  excess  is  lovely — that  the 
body  doth  to  the  soul.  This  I  have  learned  from 
the  writings  of  your  most  noble  mother." 

"Let  me  do  that,  Fanny !" 

Mary  was  taking  the  care  of  the  pots  and  pans 
out  of  the  hands  of  her  sister.  Fanny  at  first 
demurred.  Mary  very  sweetly  objected  that 
Fanny  needed  rest.  It  was  the  turn  of  her  sister, 
she  said,  to  relieve  Fanny  of  a  care  so  necessary 
to  the  orderly  life  of  the  house.  Shelley  watched 
the  new  activity  of  Mary.  She  was  going  about 
the  domestic  task  in  a  pretty  dress  and  with  hair 
neatly  beribboned.  Fanny's  dark  locks  were 
tumbled. 

"Then  you  don't  believe  in  marriage*?" 

O       He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more! 
I  O  O       "Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "childless  Mother,  rise 


Out  of  ray  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  TOO 

heart's  core,  jr 


Mary  put  her  query  innocently  enough.  Fanny 
sat  down  with  a  sigh. 

"A  law  to  compel  you  to  hear  music  in  the 
company  of  a  particular  person  and  only  in  the 
society  of  that  person,"  Shelley  said,  "appears  to 
me  parallel  to  that  of  marriage." 

"Marriage,  is  it?  It  seems  to  me  that  Mr. 
Shelley  is  always  finding  the  oddest  things  to  talk 
about  to  mere  chits  of  girls." 

They  all  turned  in  consternation.  The  en- 
trance of  the  obese  and  peremptory  Mrs.  Godwin 
had  not  been  observed  by  any  of  them.  She  had 
come  in  from  the  Juvenile  Library  without  the 
slightest  sound,  thanks  to  the  felt  slippers  she  in- 
variably put  on  after  her  dinner.  Mary  got  the 
full  benefit  of  the  orbs  of  her  stepmother  shining 
through  the  great  spectacles. 

"We  were  talking  of  Wales,  as  it  happens," 
returned  Mary  demurely.  "Fanny  is  going 
there." 

Had  the  malicious  stepdaughter  of  the  second 
Mrs.  Godwin  discharged  a  brace  of  pistols  at 
the  ceiling,  she  could  scarcely  have  created  more 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


tremendous  a  sensation  in  the  minds  of  her  audi- 
tors. Shelley  leaped  into  the  air  with  a  quota- 
tion from  the  Greek  upon  his  lips.  Mrs.  Godwin 
took  off  her  spectacles,  wiped  them  carefully  and 
resumed  them  to  gaze  in  stupefaction  at  Fanny. 

"Wales!  Fanny!"  gasped  Mrs.  Godwin.  "I 
thought  that  plan  had  been  given  up." 

When  she  had  recovered  from  the  shock  she 
turned  to  see  how  Shelley  would  receive  the  in- 
telligence. That  poet  had  disappeared  as  com- 
pletely as  if  the  atmosphere  had  absorbed  him. 
The  three  ladies  heard  the  great  door  of  the 
Juvenile  Library  close  with  a  slam.  Rushing  to 
the  little  passage  way  that  led  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  shop,  Mrs.  Godwin  beheld  the  poet  racing 
through  Skinner  Street  with  his  enormous  yellow 
coat  tails  streaming. 

"Mad  Shelley !"  she  reflected,  turning  again  to 
the  kitchen.  "They  may  well  call  you  mad. 
You've  escaped  Fanny  but  I'm  thinking  you're  to 
fall  into  the  clutches  of  the  deep  one." 


A  wound  more  fierce  than  his,  with  tears 
I   I  O  and  sighs." 


VI 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  MARY  WOLL- 

STONECRAFT  AND  THE  WIFE 

OF  WILLIAM  GODWIN 

AS  the  departure  of  Fanny  for  Wales 
would  deprive  the  second  wife  of 
William  Godwin  of  a  valuable  domes- 
tic servant,  the  lady  of  the  great  spectacles  re- 
turned to  her  kitchen  in  anything  but  an  amiable 
frame  of  mind.  Whatever  might  be  said  of 
Mrs.  Godwin's  disposition — her  husband's  friend 
Charles  Lamb  once  called  it  abominable — she 
was  an  excellent  housekeeper  and  a  still  more  ex- 
cellent cook.  The  success  of  her  household  econ- 
omy was  in  a  measure  founded  upon  the  sweet- 
ness of  Fanny  in  the  capacity  of  drudge.  When 
first  the  departure  of  the  oldest  daughter  of  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  had  been  mooted  in  her  presence, 
Mrs.  Godwin  vetoed  it  upon  the  spot.  Fanny 
acquiesced  in  her  stepmother's  decision. 

And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes, 

And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song  111 


Shelley's 


Between  them,  in  fact,  there  existed  a  common 
bond  of  sympathy.  They  were  each  domestic  in 
their  tastes.  Mrs.  Godwin's  own  daughter  Claire, 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  become  a  heroine.  The 
precise  field  in  which  this  romantic  mood  was  to 
be  sustained  did  not  as  yet  transpire.  Claire 
went  to  Drury  Lane»at  regular  intervals.  She  de- 
fied the  authority  of  her  mother  on  every  occa- 
sion. There  were  vague  rumours  already  that 
Claire  had  written  to  the  great  Lord  Byron.  Her 
object  was  to  interest  him  in  her  career  as  an 
actress.  It  had  been  whispered  in  fact  that  Claire 
might  at  any  moment  receive  a  summons  from 
Kemble  himself  to  assume  a  role  suited  to  her 
prodigious  talents.  For  the  most  part,  she  lived 
in  expectations  only.  Her  leisure  was  devoted  to 
the  recital  of  extracts  from  the  repertories  of  the 
play  houses.  She  held  the  household  in  Skinner 
Street  spellbound  by  the  fidelity  and  pathos  with 
which  she  interpreted  the  dying  Ophelia. 

Promising  as  these  traits  were  from  one  point 
of  view,  they  afforded  Mrs.  Godwin  little  help  in 
the  care  of  a  large  household.  There  was  the 

Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried:  "Arise!" 
112       Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung, 


From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  T   I  2 

Splendour  sprung.  J 

great  philosopher  himself  to  consider.  He  ate 
little  and  lived  frugally.  His  meals  were  pre- 
pared exquisitely,  none  the  less.  Mrs.  Godwin 
had  still  great  hopes  of  her  husband,  notwith- 
standing the  debts  that  haunted  Skinner  Street 
like  a  ghost.  She  had  presented  him  with  one 
son,  the  little  William  whose  young  life  was 
so  constantly  perplexed  by  the  comings  and  go- 
ings of  his  own  sister,  his  half-sister  Mary  and 
his  adopted  sister  Fanny.  Whatever  dowry  Mrs. 
Godwin  had  brought  to  her  husband  had  been  de- 
voured in  that  great  pecuniary  famine  which  the 
publication  of  unsalable  classics  entailed.  There 
was  no  possibility  of  affording  a  servant  should 
Fanny  determine  to  retire  into  the  remote  perspect- 
ive of  the  Welsh  mountains. 

"Now  you're  satisfied!"  was  the  first  sign  of 
impending  storm  with  which  Mrs.  Godwin  greeted 
Mary  upon  returning  to  the  kitchen.  "Now 
you're  satisfied!  You're  driving  Fanny  out  of 
the  house  so  that  you  can  set  your  cap  for  that 
mad  Shelley." 

The  good  lady  placed  her  arms  akimbo  in  her 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


characteristic  attitude  of  indignation.  She  glared 
fiercely  at  the  object  of  her  wrath.  Fanny,  strug- 
gling to  play  the  part  of  mediator  between  the 
belligerents,  was  at  first  ignored. 

"Shelley  thinks  far  more  of  Aeschylus  than  he 
does  of  me,"  said  Mary  gravely,  sitting  upon  the 
upturned  tub  in  which  the  butter  was  usually  kept. 
"I  doubt  if  he  could  tell  me  from  a  Greek  verb." 

"I  see  through  you,  you  artful  minx,"  roared 
Mrs.  Godwin,  her  fat  sides  shaking,  "ever  since 
you  got  back  from  your  Baxter  friends  in  Scot- 
land you've  been  running  after  Shelley.  There's 
nothing  for  you  but  Shelley!  Shelley!  Shel- 
ley!" 

The  spectacled  one  repeated  the  name  in  a 
rising  tone  until  the  last  utterance  of  the  hated 
name  was  a  scream. 

"There's  been  nothing  but  bad  luck  ever  since 
that  Shelley  darkened  this  door,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Godwin,  who  having  glared  at  Fanny  and  then 
at  Mary  without  eliciting  an  observation  from 
either,  felt  compelled  to  talk  for  the  sake  of  keep- 
ing the  ball  rolling.  "I  don't  know  what  that 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that  springs 
I   I  A      Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 


The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings,  T    T   C 

Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier,  J 

father  of  yours  sees  in  the  fellow.  He's  like  a 
mountebank." 

The  good  lady  postured  in  a  Shelleyan  atti- 
tude, casting  her  bespectacled  eyes  to  the  ceiling 
and  running  her  hand  through  her  hair  in  the 
poet's  usual  style.  She  then  took  an  imaginary 
loaf  from  her  belt  and  went  through  the  motions 
of  a  person  devouring  it  ravenously.  This  pan- 
tomime was  too  much  for  Mary  who  burst  into  the 
wildest  laughter.  The  graver  Fanny  contem- 
plated the  mimicry  with  a  smile. 

"I  think  Mr.  Shelley's  manners  are  a  little 
odd,"  she  said. 

"You're  in  love  with  him  just  the  same,"  re- 
torted Mrs.  Godwin,  whereat  Fanny  crimsoned. 
"I  know  why  he  keeps  coming  here  day  after  day. 
It's  for  you." 

"What  of  it?" 

Mary  had  asked  this.     She  looked  indignant. 

"What  of  it,  miss?  There's  this  of  it  that  he 
would  have  run  away  with  Fanny  right  under 
your  father's  eyes  if  you  hadn't  hurried  back 
from  Scotland  to  get  him  yourself." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Mary  walked  out  into  the  little  garden  in  the 
rear  of  the  kitchen. 

"That's  right,  get  out!"  bawled  Mrs.  Godwin. 
"I  don't  wonder  you're  ashamed  to  listen.  I  see 
through  you." 

"Mamma!" 

"Oh,  it's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  Mamma, 
Fanny.  That  girl  has  been  boldness  itself  since 
she  came  back  from  the  Baxters.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  she's  chasing  you  off  to  Wales 
so  as  to  get  him  the  easier." 

Fanny  rushed  to  her  stepmother's  side  and  plac- 
ing an  arm  about  her  neck  kissed  her  on  both 
cheeks. 

"We  mustn't  forget  that  Mr.  Shelley  has  a 
wife  and  child  at  home,  Mamma." 

"A  wife  and  child  at  home,  Mamma!  They've 
gone  out  of  London,  I  tell  you.  Her  father  is 
supporting  them  both.  He  was  supporting  Shel- 
ley until  he  got  tired  of  it.  If  this  Shelley  were 
good  for  anything  he'd  be  at  his  home,  instead 
of  talking  philosophy  with  other  women." 

The  words  had  just  inflicted  the  pain  in  which 

S       Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse,     Sorrow  and  fear 
1    1  \J       So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania; 


So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere  T   T  7 

Of  stormy  mist;  so  swept  her  on  her  way  / 

Mrs.  Godwin  took  such  delight  when  her  roving 
eye  caught  sight  of  a  bit  of  the  broken  platter  upon 
the  floor.  Fanny  had  carefully  picked  up  the 
ruins,  but  in  the  eagerness  with  which  she  heard 
Mary's  complaints  she  had  neglected  the  last  of 
the  dish.  That  now  rested  in  guilty  hugeness 
under  the  window.  For  a  moment  Mrs.  Godwin 
gazed  in  horror  at  what  she  saw. 
"So  that's  the  way  you  do,  Fanny." 
Her  voice  rang  out  with  a  suppressed  whoop. 
In  silent  majesty  she  next  advanced  to  the  win- 
dow. For  an  instant  she  contemplated  the  bit  of 
china.  Then  with  much  labour  and  puffing,  ow- 
ing to  her  great  accumulation  of  fat,  Mrs.  God- 
win lifted  the  piece  of  pottery  from  its  resting 
place. 

"My  fine  china  platter,"  she  said  in  horror. 
She  held  it  aloft  for  the  inspection  of  the  two 
girls.     Fanny  had  retreated  to  the  table  near  the 
kitchen  door. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Ma,"  she  said.     "It  was — " 
Mary,  who  had  come  in  from  the  garden,  inter- 
rupted her  sister. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Really,  and  upon  my  word,  Mrs.  G.,  why  do 
you  make  so  much  fuss  over  a  trifle?" 

Mrs.  Godwin  held  the  broken  china  in  front 
of  Mary's  eyes  in  an  attitude  of  defiance. 

"Is  this  what  you  call  a  trifle*?"  she  demanded 
in  a  scream.  "I  was  about  to  say  that  my  fine 
china—" 

Mary,  gazing  for  an  instant  at  the  thing  held  so 
close  to  her  face,  now  took  it  in  her  fingers  as  if 
for  the  purpose  of  a  better  inspection.  The  mo- 
ment the  broken  morsel  had  been  parted  with  by 
her  stepmother,  however,  Mary  calmly  tossed  it 
through  the  window.  The  relic  shattered  into 
fresh  fragments. 

"There,"  said  Mary  calmly,  "I  think  that's  the 
best  way  to  end  this  matter." 

"It's  the  best  way  to  begin  it,  you  minx!" 
screamed  Mrs.  Godwin.  "Not  satisfied  with  the 
mischief  already  done  you  strew  the  yard  with 
broken  dishes  for  your  poor  little  William  of  a 
brother  to  cut  his  naked  feet  on.  I'll  tell  your 
father." 

Mary  lifted  a  saucer  from  the  pile  of  dishes 

O       Even  to  the  mournful  place 
I  I  O  where  Adonais  lay. 


Out  of  her  secret  Paradise 
she  sped, 


left  by  Fanny  when  she  dried  the  last  of  them  at 
the  sink.  Mrs.  Godwin  watched  her  stepdaughter 
silently.  Fanny  uttered  a  faint  exclamation. 
She  realized  that  Mary  was  about  to  inflict  a  new 
exasperation  upon  her  stepmother,  the  nature  of 
which  she  could  not  divine. 

"When  you  tell  my  father  I  have  broken  a  dish, 
Madam,"  said  Mary,  "you  will  for  once  not  be  a 
liar.  I  shall  break  a  dish  for  the  sake  of  making 
your  story  true." 

She  hurled  the  saucer  into  the  garden,  where 
it  collided  with  a  flagstone  and  shattered  into  a 
thousand  bits. 

"Don't  you  dare !" 

Mrs.  Godwin  thrust  her  form  between  her 
stepdaughter  and  the  open  window  as  if  to  pre- 
vent any  further  destruction  of  table  ware. 
If  that  were  really  her  intention  it  was  frus- 
trated. 

"Don't  dare !"  said  Mary,  with  unruffled  cool- 
ness. "Why  not,  Madam?" 

She  threw  a  plate  into  the  yard.  It  smashed 
to  pieces. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"That's  right!"  cried  Mrs.  Godwin,  suddenly 
dropping  her  tragic  manner  and  assuming  an  ap- 
pearance of  the  highest  good  humour.  "That's 
right.  Don't  leave  us  any  dishes  to  eat  our  food 
off." 

As  if  in  obedience  to  this  injunction,  Mary 
seized  a  saucer  and  sent  it  flying.  Her  manner 
was  as  cool  as  that  of  a  surgeon  directing  a  major 
operation.  Mrs.  Godwin  had  left  the  kitchen 
window  and  gone  to  the  stove,  where  she  pro- 
fessed to  be  in  the  greatest  glee  at  the  spectacle 
of  destruction  going  forward.  Fanny  did  not 
wait  for  the  last  saucer  to  fly  to  the  end  of  the 
garden  fence.  She  rushed  to  Mary's  side,  placed 
an  arm  about  that  young  lady's  waist  and  snatched 
another  saucer  from  her  hand. 

"Come,  Mary,  dear,"  she  said,  "don't  be  silly." 

Mary  submitted  without  a  word  and  resumed 
her  seat  beside  the  table.  She  looked  from  her 
place  at  Mrs.  Godwin,  who  was  now  glaring  in 
fury  at  the  new  object  of  her  wrath. 

"I  understand  you,"  observed  Mrs.  Godwin, 
rising  to  glare  with  greater  ferocity  at  Mary. 

Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone, 
I  2  O  and  steel, 


And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  airy  tread  j  /j    x 

Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 

"You  have  made  up  your  mind  to  have  this  Shel- 
ley, this  madman." 

Fanny  drew  near  her  stepmother  and  raised 
swimming  eyes  to  the  exasperated  and  reddened 
face. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Mamma,"  she  pleaded. 

"My  poor  girl,"  retorted  Mrs.  Godwin,  in 
whom  the  pent  up  emotions  of  the  day  were 
proving  too  much  for  her  self-control,  "I  think  it 
would  be  best  if  you  addressed  your  words  to 
that  fiend." 

She  pointed  an  accusing  forefinger  at  Mary. 
The  daughter  of  Godwin  was  smiling  archly  and 
serenely  at  the  wall  with  the  expression  of  a  per- 
son who  is  both  scornful  and  amused. 

"That  fiend!"  repeated  the  excited  Mrs.  God- 
win, whom  Fanny  was  striving  vainly  to  draw 
to  the  chair  beside  the  window.  "I  know  her 
purpose.  She  wants  to  rule  this  house.  While 
she  was  away  we  had  peace.  In  Scotland  she 
had  word  of  what  was  taking  place  here.  She 
hurried  home  to  steal  the  mad  Shelley  from  you." 

Fanny,  her  face  burning  with  blushes,   tried 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


to  place  a  hand  over  Mrs.  Godwin's  mouth. 
Mary  observed  the  gesture. 

"Let  her  talk  on,  Fanny,"  she  said.  "I'm  sure 
it  does  not  bother  me." 

Mrs.  Godwin  hurled  a  dish  cloth  at  Mary. 
This  dish  cloth  had  reposed  in  vain  wetness  upon 
the  edge  of  the  sink.  It  was  a  greasy  clout,  ne- 
glected by  Fanny  because  of  the  distractions  she 
had  endured.  The  article  had  not  escaped  the 
observation  of  Mrs.  Godwin  who  mentally  re- 
served it  for  the  purpose  to  which  it  was  now 
applied.  For  once  Mary  was  taken  unawares. 
Ordinarily  she  fully  understood  the  tactical  re- 
sources of  her  stepmother.  She  had  learned  from 
bitter  experience  to  dodge  tablespoons  and  even 
pieces  of  food  in  a  raw  condition.  Having  only 
lately  come  back  from  a  long  visit  to  her  Scotch 
friends,  Mary  was  out  of  practice.  She  did  not 
dodge  with  the  necessary  speed.  The  heavy  and 
saturated  cloth  caught  her  fairly  on  the  mouth. 
It  dropped  into  her  lap,  leaving  the  bosom  of  her 
dress  stained  in  ruin. 

Blank  amazement  held  Fanny  spellbound.     In 

Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er 
122  they  fell: 


And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp  T   ^   *? 

than  they  J 


the  tremendous  excitement  of  seeing  the  majestic 
Mary  subjected  to  an  indignity  of  the  sort,  Mrs. 
Godwin  likewise  was  overcome.  She  had  ex- 
pected to  see  her  stepdaughter  dodge  out  of  the 
way  with  the  cat-like  agility  for  which  her  little 
body  was  so  noted.  Unfortunately  the  worst 
happened.  Mrs.  Godwin  determined,  notwith- 
standing her  secret  regret  at  the  mischief  she  had 
achieved,  to  stand  by  her  guns. 

"That's  good  for  you,"  she  roared,  waving  an 
arm  of  triumph. 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  her  mouth  when 
Mary  ran  around  the  table  with  the  wet  cloth  in 
her  hands.  She  dealt  her  stepmother  one  clout 
on  the  head.  This  sent  the  spectacles  flying  to 
the  remotest  end  of  the  kitchen.  The  attack  had 
caught  the  unfortunate  lady  unawares.  Before 
she  could  recover  from  her  surprise,  she  received 
another  clout.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 

Mrs.  Godwin  began  a  retreat  round  the  kitchen 
table.  Mary,  in  hot  pursuit,  dealt  her  stepmother 
clout  after  clout  with  the  wet  rag.  The  destruc- 
tion of  her  spectacles  prevented  the  unfortunate 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


lady,  deprived  of  all  presence  of  mind,  from  pro- 
tecting herself  with  her  fists. 

Fanny  leaped  to  her  feet  while  the  fray  was 
in  its  initial  stage. 

"Mary!"  she  exclaimed.     "Mary  dear!" 

The  pock-faced  girl  strove  to  place  herself  be- 
tween pursuer  and  pursued.  The  effort  was 
baffled  by  the  quickness  of  the  attacking  party. 
The  bosom  of  the  elder  lady's  dress  was  so  com- 
pletely saturated  through  the  successive  clouts  she 
sustained  from  Mary's  weapon  that  it  was  no 
longer  decent.  Yet  the  blows  rained  remorse- 
lessly, Mrs.  Godwin  being  impeded  by  her  exces- 
sive weight  from  the  effective  flight  which  alone 
was  expedient.  Fanny,  having  the  advantage  of 
height  over  these  two,  was  fortunate  enough  in 
the  end  to  intercept  the  blows  Mary  was  raining 
upon  her  stepmother's  head  and  shoulders. 

Without  a  word  and  in  perfect  coolness,  Mary 
resumed  the  seat  she  had  vacated.  Her  face  was 
lost  in  a  wilderness  of  her  own  dishevelled  hair. 
The  ribbon  at  her  neck  was  torn  and  twisted. 
There  was  a  long  scratch  on  her  nose — the  work  of 

Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 
I   2.  Zj.      Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of  May, 


Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  I  "2,  C 

undeserving  way.  O 


her  stepmother's  finger  nails.  But  Mrs.  Godwin 
showed  severest  traces  of  the  fray.  Her  specta- 
cles were  lying  in  a  broken  mass  under  the  win- 
dow. Her  breath  was  gone  from  her  body.  She 
had  lost  one  of  her  felt  slippers.  There  was  a 
tooth  either  loose  or  missing  from  her  jaw.  She 
felt  her  mouth  in  a  dazed  -way. 


Elopement 


VII 
THE  CHILD  OF  SONG 

SHELLEY,  having  quitted  the  house  of 
William  Godwin,  did  not  for  an  instant 
cease  running  at  the  top  of  his  speed  un- 
til he  had  passed  quite  out  of  Skinner  Street. 

He  still  hugged  the  volume  of  Aeschylus.  His 
long  locks  streamed  in  the  wind.  The  breezes  of 
that  spring  morning  played  freely  upon  his  ex- 
posed neck. 

At  last,  as  he  ran,  his  eye  was  attracted  by 
the  sight  of  some  sparse  and  starved  pines  which 
at  that  early  period  of  the  nineteenth  century,  still 
dragged  out  a  forlorn  existence  in  a  few  favoured 
spots  in  the  London  of  the  Prince  Regent.  The 
author  of  Queen  Mab  halted  suddenly.  Drawing 
near  the  first  of  the  trees,  he  began  to  lick  its 
trunk.  This  gratification  of  one  of  Shelley's 
most  peculiar  habits  attracted  an  old  gentleman 

~   ~  £       *n  the  deatn-chamber  f°r  a  moment  Death, 
I  2  O       Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 


Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath  T   ^  ^7 

Revisited  those  lips,  and  Life's  pale  light  / 


who  essayed  to  speak  a  word  to  the  poet.  The 
author  of  Queen  Mab  had  no  eyes  for  the  stranger. 
He  looked  instead  upon  the  book  under  his  arm, 
of  which  he  seemed  to  grow  suddenly  aware  like 
one  emerging  from  a  dream. 

Crowded  as  was  the  thoroughfare  along  which 
he  paced,  Shelley  lost  no  time  in  opening  the  sub- 
stantial edition  of  the  Greek  poet.  He  was  soon 
absorbed  in  its  contents.  The  poet  stooped  low 
over  his  pages,  accentuating  the  forward  slope  of 
his  shoulders.  The  neck  was  stretched  out  with 
the  curve  of  a  swan's.  He  held  the  book  at  some 
six  or  seven  inches  from  his  nose.  The  drays 
moved  rapidly  along  the  streets.  Men  and 
women  of  all  ranks,  seeing  the  poet  absorbed,  made 
way  for  him  with  a  smile.  Sometimes  a  look  of 
wonder  was  drawn  from  the  pedestrian  owing 
to  the  grotesqueness  of  the  figure  Shelley  now  pre- 
sented. 

For  more  than  an  hour  the  poet  went  thus  upon 
the  highway,  evading  the  heads  of  horses  and  the 
whips  of  their  drivers  by  what  seemed  the  sheer- 
est miracle.  He  came  in  time  to  one  of  those 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


little  hostelries  for  which  the  London  of  the  year 
before  Waterloo  was  famed.  Shelley  paused. 
He  did  not  seem  to  know  where  he  was.  He 
stared,  glanced  up  at  the  windows  and  walked  into 
the  house,  as  if  unfamiliar  with  its  architecture. 

There  was  a  narrow  and  darkened  hallway  for 
him  to  pass  through.  This  circumstance  did  not 
suffice  to  divert  his  eye  from  the  copy  of  Aeschylus. 
He  was  still  reading  when  he  pushed  open  a  door 
on  the  second  landing. 

"If  I  were  to  read  as  long  as  you  read,  Shelley, 
my  hair  and  my  teeth  would  be  strewed  about  on 
the  floor  and  my  eyes  would  slip  down  my  cheeks 
into  my  waistcoat  pockets." 

The  words  were  spoken  in  a  deep  bass  voice. 
They  issued  from  the  lips  of  a  young  man  of 
twenty-two,  a  great  dark  lump  of  humanity  with 
the  neck  of  a  bull  and  the  features  of  an  epicure. 

"Hogg!"  exclaimed  Shelley.  He  dropped  his 
classic  to  the  floor,  rushing  into  the  arms  of  his 
friend.  "Believe  me,  that  I  sympathize  with 
your  feelings  on  Bonaparte  and  peace  very 
warmly !" 

O        Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her 
I  2  O  dear  delight 


"Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  T  2,  O 

comfortless,  yr 


"Bonaparte!"  roared  Hogg,  rising  to  his  full 
height  from  the  lounging  chair  in  which  he  had 
been  poring  over  Ariosto,  "what  put  Bonaparte 
into  your  dreaming  head?" 

"Bonaparte,"  cried  Shelley,  "is  a  person  to 
whom  I  have  a  very  great  objection.  He  is  to 
me  a  hateful  and  despicable  being." 

Establishing  himself  in  close  proximity  to  a  fire 
which  burned  in  the  grate,  notwithstanding  the 
advanced  spring,  Shelley  sprawled  on  the  floor. 

The  unpleasant  and  jarring  note  in  the  voice 
of  Shelley  which  made  his  ordinary  conversation 
such  an  affliction  to  the  ear  seemed  to  be  toned 
down  into  harmony.  This  always  happened 
when  he  held  discourse  with  his  friend  Hogg. 
The  poet  dropped  the  sharpness  of  utterance  for 
which  he  was  noted  then — dropped  it  as  one  might 
drop  a  dead  weight.  He  spoke  usually  in  what  a 
friend  of  his  once  called  sharp  fourths,  "the  most 
unpleasing  sequence  of  sound  that  can  fall  upon 
the  human  ear."  As  he  spoke  calmly  now  to 
Hogg,  the  disharmony  left  his  voice  as  a  cloud 
leaves  the  sky  before  the  sun  or  as  a  sail  sinks 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


below  the  horizon.  Every  note  in  his  scale  was 
at  last  attuned  to  sweetness.  He  was  clear.  He 
was  expressive.  He  was  distinct.  In  a  word,  his 
voice  was  under  complete  control,  reflecting  by  its 
sweetness  the  mood  into  which  the  sight  of  his 
dearest  friend  and  most  intimate  companion, 
Thomas  Jefferson  Hogg,  had  plunged  him. 

"Do  grapes  really  grow  in  that  manner  any- 
where?" 

Hogg,  following  with  his  eye  the  direction  of 
Shelley's  pointing  forefinger,  noted  the  trellised 
pattern  of  the  paper  on  the  wall  of  the  poet's  sit- 
ting room.  The  leaves  of  the  vine,  the  clusters 
of  the  grape  on  their  immense  bunches,  and  even 
the  tendrils  were  delineated  with  the  extravagance 
of  a  fantastic  but  genuine  art.  Shelley  was  so 
pleased  with  the  design  that  he  leaped  from  his 
recumbent  attitude  before  the  fire  and  patted  the 
papered  wall.  Hogg  grunted. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  believe  grapes  grow  in  that 
manner  somewhere  in  the  world." 

Shelley  clapped  his  hands  and  kissed  the  wall  in 
rapture. 

As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 
JL        W       Leave  me  not!"  cried  Urania:  her  distress 


Roused  Death:  Death  rose  and  smiled,  T   *y   T 

and  met  her  vain  caress.  3 

"Then  we  shall  go  to  see  them  growing." 

"In  that  event,"  retorted  Hogg,  "we  shall  not 
stay  here  for  ever.  Thank  God !  The  confusion 
of  this  room  of  yours  drives  me  to  distraction." 

The  friends  took  a  survey  of  the  apartment  as 
the  words  were  uttered. 

The  eye  could  not  wander  from  corner  to  comer 
of  the  spacious  sitting  room  without  deriving  im- 
pressions of  the  chaotic,  the  jumbled,  the  con- 
fused. The  centre  of  the  apartment  was  a  tower- 
ing pyramid  of  portmanteaus,  hat  boxes  and 
trunks.  The  carpet  was  exposed  only  here  and 
there,  thanks  to  the  layers  of  printed  sheets,  of 
etchings,  of  bits  of  underwear  and  even  of  bank 
notes.  These  were  inches  deep,  with  traces  of 
dust  to  tell  how  little  they  were  usually  disturbed. 
Suggestions  of  a  chemical  laboratory  took  the 
form  of  scattered  or  broken  vials.  A  brace  of 
pistols  lay  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window,  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  copies  of  classical  authors, 
opened  at  favourite  passages.  Shoes  were  bolt  up- 
right alongside  mathematical  instruments  and 
pairs  of  trousers.  The  large  square  table  bore 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


one  immense  acid  stain,  flanked  by  smaller  dis- 
colourations.  The  table  cloth  lay  on  the  floor 
in  a  mass  of  blackened  stains.  A  broken  pitcher 
stood  at  the  very  edge  of  this  table,  the  legs  of 
which  were  surrounded  by  splinters  of  china  and 
a  broken  bottle  or  two.  A  bust  of  Socrates, 
broken  in  two,  was  beside  the  fireplace. 

The  glittering  eye  of  Thomas  Jefferson  Hogg 
lighted  upon  the  copy  of  Aeschylus  which  in  his 
hasty  entry  Shelley  had  flung  at  the  feet  of  his 
friend.  The  inseparable  companion  of  the  poet 
picked  the  classic  from  the  floor  and  began  idly 
turning  the  leaves.  He  looked  up  suddenly  to  the 
ceiling. 

"William  Godwin!"  he  cried.  "I  see  by  the 
entry  upon  the  fly  leaf  that  this  is  his.  You  have 
just  come  from  Skinner  Street." 

"With  what  delight,"  cried  Shelley,  devouring 
a  biscuit  he  found  on  the  mantelpiece,  "what 
cheerfulness,  what  goodwill  may  it  be  conceived 
that  I  constitute  myself  the  pupil  of  him  under 
whose  actual  guidance  my  very  thoughts  have 
hitherto  been  arranged." 

"Stay  yet  awhile !  speak  to  me  once  again ; 
J.    4  ii       Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live; 


And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain  T  ^  t\ 

That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive,  j  J 


He  ran  from  the  fire  to  plunge  his  head  into  a 
basin  filled  with  cold  water.  This  had  reposed 
in  neglect  until  that  moment  upon  the  wash  stand, 
amid  an  assortment  of  chemical  apparatus.  The 
locks  of  the  poet  were  soon  dripping.  The  water 
scattered  in  all  directions.  He  did  not  dry  him- 
self with  a  towel.  He  simply  ran  his  hand 
through  his  head  and  shook  his  mane  as  if  he  had 
been  a  huge  dog. 

"Ha!"  cried  Hogg.  "The  disciple  of  Godwin 
is  immersed,  but  not  in  the  waters  of  baptism." 

The  keenness  of  the  eye  of  Thomas  Jefferson 
Hogg  went  with  a  mockery  of  manner  and  a  sharp- 
ness of  wit  that  rendered  him  at  once  a  delight  and 
a  terror  to  his  friend  Shelley.  Hogg  was  hand- 
some in  his  large  and  material  way,  athletic  and 
intellectual  both.  The  mental  gifts  for  which 
he  was  already  famed  in  his  youth  found  expres- 
sion in  his  face  even  when  in  repose.  He  had  wit 
and  audacity  and  the  gifts  of  the  satirist.  His 
looks  revealed  the  man.  Aquiline  of  nose,  yellow 
in  complexion,  large-footed,  with  a  pair  of  great 
hands,  held  clasped  in  his  lap  or  waved  with  no 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


awkwardness  as  he  pointed  some  animated  period, 
he  seemed  contrived  by  nature  as  a  contrast  to 
the  etherealized  aspect  of  his  poetical  friend. 
Hogg  was  ever  in  the  company  of  books.  He 
knew  Greek  like  an  Oxford  don.  He  read  the 
Italian  and  French  poets  in  the  originals.  He 
spoke  of  all  things  like  a  man  well  informed. 
Shelley  was  slight  and  fragile  to  look  at.  Hogg 
was  fleshy  and  solid.  The  head  of  Shelley  was 
unusually  small.  That  of  Hogg  seemed  gigantic. 
Shelley's  tones  were  high  and  piercing.  Hogg 
spoke  in  a  large,  rich  and  ample  voice,  deep  yet 
pleasing  to  the  ear. 

"It  has  always  been  my  experience  of  you," 
said  Hogg,  with  an  irrelevancy  worthy  of  Shelley 
at  his  worst,  "that  into  whatever  household  you 
go,  the  female  portion  of  the  establishment  be- 
comes violently  interested  in  yourself." 

Shelley  did  not  make  any  reply.  He  stood  in 
dripping  majesty,  still  running  the  fingers  of  both 
hands  through  his  masses  of  tangled  hair.  His 
waistcoat  was  entirely  unbuttoned.  He  had  cast 
aside  his  neckcloth  and  his  white  throat  was  bare. 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 

34   ~s"°w  thou  art  dead' as  **  ** were  a  part 


Of  thee,  my  Adonais!  I  would  give  T  *\   r* 

All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art!  J  £) 


He  smiled  and  revealed  the  even  whiteness  of  his 
teeth  but  otherwise  took  no  notice  of  the  remark 
of  his  friend.  Hogg  had  not  quite  finished  what 
he  had  to  say. 

"The  fact  that  the  female  portion  of  the  God- 
win household  is  so  large — three  young  ladies  to 
say  nothing  of  the  wife — makes  me  uneasy." 

Shelley  drew  near  the  fire  and  began  cowering 
over  it  with  the  sensitiveness  to  cold  for  which  he 
was  always  noted.  In  a  second  he  had  stuck  his 
feet  upon  the  fender.  Hogg  cleared  the  fireplace 
with  the  poker.  There  was  a  blaze  at  which  the 
poet  gazed  in  pleasure  while  his  teeth  chattered. 
The  room  was  suddenly  impregnated  with  so  dis- 
agreeable an  odour  that  Hogg  glanced  about  to 
ascertain  the  source  of  it. 

The  offense  emanated  from  the  contents  of  a 
retort  poised  above  an  argand  lamp.  The  liquor 
in  the  vessel  had  attained  so  high  a  temperature 
that  it  effervesced.  There  was  a  sudden  addition 
to  the  stains  upon  the  carpet.  The  poet  antici- 
pated a  movement  of  his  friend  by  seizing  the 
retort  and  hurling  it  beneath  the  grate.  It 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


smashed  to  atoms,  the  odour  attaining  a  pungency 
that  forced  them  both  to  hold  their  noses. 

"I  think  your  visits  to  the  house  of  Godwin," 
proceeded  Hogg,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  "are 
likely  to  unbalance  the  ladies  there.  They  will 
all  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"The  threatened  arrest  of  Godwin  for  debt," 
replied  Shelley,  "is  the  calamity  which  impends 
over  the  household  in  Skinner  Street.  I  proceed 
thither  to  relieve  distress,  not  to  be  the  herald  of 
it." 

"Remember  that  you  can't  marry  the  ladies  in 
Godwin's  house — not  even  one  of  them.  You 
have  a  wife  already." 

Shelley  threw  his  hat  into  the  fire. 

"Godwin  has  been  trying  to  borrow  of  his  dis- 
ciple," bantered  Hogg,  closing  the  book  of  Italian 
verse  he  had  been  reading  for  an  hour  prior  to 
the  appearance  of  his  inspired  friend.  "Is  it  five 
thousand  pounds  he  wants'?" 

"Three!" 

The  poet  shifted  both  his  feet  abruptly  as  he 
spoke.  The  fender  at  once  flew  up.  A  decoction 


I36 


But  I  am  chained  to  Time, 
and  cannot  thence  depart! 


"O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert,  T   3  T 

Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men  J  / 


of  cheese  and  oysters  was  precipitated  into  the 
fire  by  that  accident.  A  mass  of  scalloped  oysters 
was  ruined.  The  cinders  and  the  edibles  were 
mingled  in  inextricable  confusion.  Hogg,  horror- 
stricken,  indulged  in  a  round  oath.  Shelley 
seemed  unaware  of  the  ruin.  He  paid  not  the 
smallest  attention  to  it,  at  first.  His  attention 
was  at  last  drawn  to  the  loss  of  the  refreshments 
by  his  friend's  exclamation.  Shelley  thereupon 
scooped  up  the  ruin  with  a  shovel,  and  held  it 
forth  for  inspection  to  the  eye  of  the  friend  and 
companion  of  his  college  days. 

"When  last  I  saw  you,"  he  said,  "I  was  about 
to  enter  into  the  profession  of  physic.  You  may 
wonder  at  a  change  in  my  determination." 

"If  you  could  only  realize  the  sensation  your 
invasion  of  the  Godwin  household  has  caused  in 
Skinner  Street!"  pursued  Hogg,  without  heeding 
the  irrelevancies  of  his  friend.  "Godwin,  as  you 
ought  to  know,  is  harassed  by  his  creditors.  His 
wife  has  been  unable  to  make  the  Juvenile  Li- 
brary a  success.  The  three  girls  live  in  penury 
and  in  misery." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Misery!"  Shelley  spoke  with  incredulity. 
"What  felicity  can  equal  daily  association  with  a 
Godwin?" 

"Misery!"  echoed  Hogg  "They  are  all  in  de- 
spair. They  quarrel  from  morning  until  night. 
Suddenly  the  mad  Shelley  arrives.  He  lifts  the 
burden  of  debt  from  the  shoulders  of  Godwin  by 
offering  to  raise  five  thousand  pounds — " 

"Three!" 

"Three !  So  be  it.  That  is  as  nothing  to  the 
effect  upon  the  three  young  ladies  of  the  arrival 
of  a  poet  who  does  not  believe  in  marriage  and 
who  aches  with  a  passion  for  reforming  the  world. 
They  fall  to  fighting  for  you  among  themselves. 
What  is  to  be  the  end?" 

"Marriage,"  piped  the  poet  in  his  shrillest  tone, 
"is  detestable.  Godwin  taught  me  so.  A  kind 
of  ineffable,  sickening  disgust  seizes  my  mind 
when  I  think  of  this  most  despotic,  most  unre- 
quired  fetter  which  prejudice  has  forged  to  con- 
fine its  energies.  Yes !  This  is  the  fruit  of  su- 
perstition and  superstition  must  perish  before  this 
can  fall." 


138 


Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though 
mighty  heart 


Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  where  was  then 


"Why  did  you  banish  me  from  the  presence  of 
your  wife,"  persisted  the  incorrigible  Hogg, 
"when  you  discovered  I  had  been  making  love  to 
her?' 

"I  had  observed  that  Harriet's  behaviour  to  my 
friend  had  been  greatly  altered.  I  saw  she  re- 
garded him  with  prejudice  and  hatred.  I  saw  it 
with  great  pain.  I  remarked  it  to  her.  Her  dark 
hints  of  his  unworthiness  alarmed  me." 

"You  were  not  jealous  of  your  rights  as  a  hus- 
band*? You  did  not  for  once  repudiate  the  teach- 
ings of  Godwin  on  the  subject  of  marriage?" 

"All  I  recollect  of  that  terrible  day,"  went  on 
the  poet,  harking  back  to  the  ceiling  for  an  audi- 
tor, "was  that  I  pardoned  my  friend  freely.  I 
fully  pardoned  him.  I  said  I  would  still  be  a 
friend  to  him  and  hoped  soon  to  convince  him  how 
lovely  virtue  is — " 

"By  making  me  leave  the  house!  That's  al- 
ways the  way  with  these  men  who  do  not  believe 
in  marriage.  They  are  always  most  jealous  of 
their  own  marital  rights." 

Shelley   found    a   cake   under   the   table   and 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


snatched  it  eagerly.  He  thrust  the  delicacy  whole 
into  his  mouth  before  replying. 

"I  think  marriage  an  evil — an  evil  of  immense 
and  extensive  magnitude,  but  I  think  a  previous 
reformation  in  morals — and  that  a  general  and 
a  great  one — is  requisite  before  it  may  be  reme- 
died." 

Hogg  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  He  thrust  the 
poker  between  the  leaves  of  a  copy  of  Homer  at 
his  feet. 

"I  hope  you  will  bear  that  in  mind  when  you 
exchange  ideas  with  the  young  ladies  in  Godwin's 
household.  All  have  been  reared  in  an  atmos- 
phere fatal  to  marriage." 

Shelley  had  made  a  pellet  of  another  biscuit. 
He  was  squatted  upon  the  floor,  fingering  a  bank 
note  into  which  a  hole  had  been  eaten  by  a  live 
coal. 

"Marriage !  No !"  he  cried.  "I  do  not  accept 
it  as  an  ultimate." 

"For  a  man  who  does  not  believe  in  marriage 
your  attitude  to  your  own  wife  is  conventional 
enough,"  rejoined  Hogg,  loudly.  "Again  I  ask, 

Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn 
1-j.O  the  spear? 


Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when  T    A   T 

Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere,  | 


what  did  you  say  and  do  when  I  made  love  to 
Harriet?" 

Shelley  started  to  his  feet  like  a  man  who  has 
received  a  sudden  blow.  Hogg,  fearing  he  had 
outraged  his  friend's  feelings,  was  stammering  a 
word  of  excuse  when  the  poet  took  one  of  the 
candles  from  its  place  beside  a  crucible.  He  be- 
gan to  walk  with  the  candle  about  the  room,  pick- 
ing his  wary  way  through  the  maze  of  boots, 
classics,  underwear  and  chemical  appartus. 

"What  is  it?" 

Hogg  asked  this  in  a  whisper,  an  awe-struck 
whisper.  Shelley  did  not  pay  the  slightest  atten- 
tion. He  walked  on  until  he  had  reached  the  door 
of  the  tiny  study  off  the  main  apartments  of  his 
suite.  Fully  five  minutes  passed  before  he 
emerged.  When  Shelley  hove  once  more  in  sight, 
he  had  a  plate  of  fruit  and  nuts  in  his  hand. 
These  he  laid  at  the  feet  of  Hogg  with  a  look  of 
triumph  and  sprawled  again  before  the  blazing 
logs  in  the  chimney  piece. 

"You  are  a  penitent,  I  see,"  observed  Hogg, 
taking  an  apple  from  the  plate  and  biting  an 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


enormous  piece  out  of  it.  "You  make  restitution 
and  reparation.  This  fruit  is  not  as  delectable 
as  the  scalloped  oysters,  but  it  suffices." 

But  Shelley's  brow  had  clouded  all  at  once. 
The  look  of  triumph  had  left  his  little  face.  He 
brushed  his  hair  with  his  hand  and  began  speaking 
in  his  highest  and  most  discordant  tones. 

"You  spoke  of  making  love  to  my  wife,"  he 
cried.  "You  know  how  I  went  to  Sussex  to  set- 
tle my  affairs.  I  left  my  Harriet  at  York  under 
the  protection  of  him  who  was  sworn  to  be  true 
to  me.  I  left  her  under  the  protection  of  Hogg, 
the  companion  of  my  soul.  You!  You  know 
the  implicit  faith  I  had  in  you,  the  unalterable- 
ness  of  my  attachment,  the  exalted  thoughts  I 
entertained  of  your  excellence  !" 

Hogg  devoured  the  apple  gravely.  He  sought 
to  utter  a  word.  Shelley  waved  a  razor  to  enjoin 
silence. 

"Can  you  then  conceive,"  he  cried  in  the  shrill- 
est treble  he  had  yet  reached,  "that  I  should  sus- 
pect you  of  trying  to  seduce  my  wife?" 

Hogg,  unabashed,  threw  the  core  of  the  apple 


The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled 
from  thee  like  deer. 


"The  herded  wolves  bold  only  to  pursue;  T  /I  "5 

The  abscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead ;  |  j 


into  the  fire.  He  scanned  the  fruit  in  the  dish 
critically  and  at  last  selected  an  orange. 

"That  my  friend  should  have  chosen  the  very 
time  for  this  attempt  when  I  most  confided  in 
him,"  resumed  Shelley,  "this  is  the  cruelty  of  it. 
Conceive  the  sophistry!  Conceive  the  energy  of 
vice,  for  energy  is  inseparable  from  high  powers 
like  yours.  Oh,  that  resistless  and  pathetic  elo- 
quence of  yours,  the  illumination  of  your  coun- 
tenance on  which  I  sometimes  gazed  until  I  fan- 
cied the  world  could  be  reformed  by  gazing  too — " 

"That  is  my  point,"  interrupted  Hogg,  eagerly. 
"For  a  man  who  scoffs  at  marriage  you  show  a 
remarkable  insistence  upon  the  rights  of  a  hus- 
band. That  is  proper.  I  merely  wish  to  point 
out  your  inconsistency." 

"Virtue  has  lost  one  of  her  defenders!"  cried 
Shelley.  "Vice  has  gained  a  proselyte." 

"Why  did  you  kick  me  out  for  making  love  to 
Harriet*?"  asked  the  unabashed  Hogg,  "if  you 
don't  believe  in  marriage?  And  those  letters  you 
have  written  to  everybody  denouncing  me — " 

"Can  not  I  reason  with  him*?"     Shelley  ad- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


dressed  this  query  to  the  ceiling.  "Is  he  dead, 
gone,  cold,  annihilated4?  None,  none  of  these! 
Therefore  not  irretrievable — not  fallen  like  Luci- 
fer, never  to  rise  again!" 

"What  about  yourself  and  those  young  ladies 
in  Godwin's  house?" 

"I  told  him  that  I  pardoned  him  freely,"  ran 
on  Shelley,  his  great  deer-like  eyes  scrutinizing 
the  ceiling  as  if  he  had  found  an  auditor  there. 
"His  vices  and  not  himself  were  the  object  of  my 
horror  and  my  hatred." 

"Rather  hard  on  me,"  commented  Hogg,  "but 
as  I  was  saying,  since  you  refuse  to  accept  mar- 
riage— " 

"Are  you  not  he  whom  I  love,"  asked  Shelley 
addressing  his  friend  directly  on  a  sudden,  "whom 
I  deem  capable  of  exciting  the  emulation  and  at- 
tracting the  admiration  of  thousands?" 

In  the  animation  of  this  debate,  Shelley  had 
extracted  a  large  loaf  from  beneath  a  stained  sofa. 
He  was  munching  as  he  spoke.  When  the  subject 
had  quite  carried  him  away,  he  began  to  pace  the 
room  heedless  of  the  manuscripts,  personal  belong- 

The  vultures  to  the  conquerer's  banner  true 
I  *4  4       Who  feed  where  De!!olation  <""  has  fed. 


And  whose  wings  rain  contagion ; — how  they  fled,        T    A   p 
When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow,  T"  D 


ings  and  books  scattered  over  it.  These  he  kicked 
as  he  proceeded,  until  a  razor  which  had  been 
used  as  a  knife,  was  sent  flying  among  the  poet's 
boots  while  the  boots  themselves  went  hither  and 
thither  kicked  by  the  poet's  feet.  A  great  rent 
in  the  carpet,  caused  by  the  flames  of  an  acid, 
caught  the  philosopher's  foot  and  he  went  sprawl- 
ing, the  loaf  flying  to  a  remote  corner. 

"Let's  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  he  said,  rising,  and 
smiling  into  the  face  of  Hogg. 

There  began  an  instant  search  for  cups  and 
saucers.  Hogg  scanned  each  article  of  chinaware 
carefully.  He  came  upon  a  seven  shilling  piece 
which  had  become  half  dissolved  in  the  strong  acid 
covering  its  bulk  at  the  bottom  of  an  ornate  tea 
cup.  Not  until  he  had  wiped  the  chinaware  with 
one  of  Shelley's  shirts  did  Hogg  brew  the  favour- 
ite beverage  of  his  friend. 

"The  Duke  of  Norfolk  does  not  like  bread," 
said  Shelley,  as  he  gulped  down  half  the  tea  in 
the  large  cup  he  held.  "Did  you  ever  meet  a 
man  who  did  not  like  bread*?" 

"How  do  you  know,"  asked  Hogg,  after  a  mo- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


ment's  meditation,  "that  the  Duke  does  not  like 
bread?" 

"I  met  him  in  Piccadilly  once  and  offered  him 
some  of  my  loaf.  He  would  not  take  any.  He 
said  he  didn't  like  the  look  of  it." 

"The  individual  in  question  probably  has  no 
objection  to  bread  in  a  moderate  quantity,"  re- 
plied Hogg,  peeling  another  orange.  "At  a 
proper  time  and  with  the  usual  adjuncts  the  Duke 
might  eat  bread  with  relish.  His  grace  may  be 
unwilling  to  devour  two  or  three  pounds  of  bread 
dry  in  the  public  street  and  at  an  early  hour." 

Throughout  the  elucidation  of  this  theme  by 
the  sagacious  Hogg,  his  poetical  young  friend 
spent  the  time  in  breaking  a  quantity  of  bread 
picked  from  the  floor  into  a  large  basin.  Shelley 
worked  away  with  infinite  patience  until  the  basin 
was  quite  full.  He  next  lifted  the  steaming  ket- 
tle from  the  fender  and  poured  its  contents  over 
the  broken  bread.  The  mass  steeped  for  several 
minutes  in  the  basin,  during  which  time  Hogg 
buried  his  nose  in  Homer,  whose  Iliad  he  had 
drawn  towards  him  on  the  floor  with  the  aid  of 


146 


The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 

And  smiled ! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow, 


They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  T    A  ^ 

them  lying  low.  I   / 


the  poker.  Shelley,  having  satisfied  himself  that 
the  water  had  swollen  the  bread  in  the  basin  to 
correct  proportions,  poured  the  liquid  off  on  to 
the  carpet.  The  bread  still  required  some  squeez- 
ing by  the  poet's  hands,  a  task  which  was  exe- 
cuted with  nicety  and  despatch. 

"Hand  me  a  spoon,  Hogg." 

This  command  received  no  attention  from  the 
young  man  poring  over  Homer.  Shelley  seized 
a  razor  at  the  foot  of  a  chair  and  cut  the  mass  of 
wet  bread  into  pieces.  The  morsels  were  now  of 
dimensions  to  receive  nutmeg  gratings,  which  Shel- 
ley applied  from  an  improvised  pantry  in  one  of 
his  neglected  boots,  out  of  which  he  likewise  ex- 
tracted a  paper  bag  filled  with  lumps  of  sugar. 

"I  am  happy  that  you  like  Kehama,"  said  Shel- 
ley, gorging  himself  with  the  mass  after  it  had 
been  sprinkled  with  sugar  and  nutmeg.  "Is  not 
the  chapter  where  Kailyal  despises  the  leprosy 
grand*?" 

"Why,  Bysshe,"  cried  Hogg,  looking  up  from 
his  Homer  without  paying  the  least  attention  to 
his  friend's  question,  "you  lap  that  stuff  up  as 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


greedily  as  the  Valkyriae  in  the  Scandinavian 
story  lap  up  the  blood  of  the  slain." 

The  observation  delighted  Shelley  hugely. 

"Aye !"  he  shrieked,  dancing  about  on  one  foot 
and  stuffing  the  preparation  he  had  just  manu- 
factured down  his  throat,  "I  lap  up  the  blood  of 
the  slain!" 

He  continued  dancing  about  with  a  hand  filled 
with  the  mixture.  For  a  full  minute  he  did  not 
cease  to  repeat: 

"I  lap  up  the  blood  of  the  slain !  I  sup  up  the 
gore  of  murdered  kings !" 

By  that  time  he  had  consumed  every  fragment 
of  his  favourite  food. 

"You  lap  up  the  blood  of  the  slain !"  echoed  a 
sweet  voice.  "How  does  it  taste?" 

"Harriet!" 

The  name  was  an  exclamation  of  delight  upon 
the  lips  of  Hogg.  He  gazed  at  the  newcomer, 
and  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked,  like  the 
gentleman  in  the  greatest  of  Dryden's  odes. 

She  was  the  wife  of  Shelley. 

A  complete  change  came  over  the  expression 


148 


"The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 


Is  gathered   into   death  without  a  dawn,  j    Ar\ 

And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again;  IX 


on  the  countenance  of  the  poet's  wife  and  over 
the  countenance  of  Hogg  too  as  the  young  lady 
advanced  just  within  the  door.  She  had  brought 
her  sister.  Perhaps  it  would  be  more  accurate  to 
say  that  the  sister  had  brought  the  wife.  Shelley 
had  started  in  sheer  delight  when  his  ear  caught 
first  the  accents  of  the  little  lady  to  whom  he  had 
so  recently  given  his  name  after  eloping  with  her 
from  London  to  Edinburgh.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
must  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  as  if,  too,  she  could 
not  have  resisted  an  impulse  to  surrender  her  sweet 
person  to  the  embrace.  Before  there  could  occur 
the  least  display  of  mutual  affection  between  them, 
a  tall  and  forbidding  figure  had  thrust  itself  be- 
tween the  couple. 

Shelley  gasped. 

"Eliza!" 

His  pronunciation  of  the  name  was  a  revela- 
tion. His  tones  were  sharp,  strident,  shrill.  He 
seemed  to  see  a  ghost. 

One  look  at  the  sprawling  figure  of  Shelley  had 
been  enough  to  set  his  tiny  and  exquisite  wife 
into  a  gale  of  laughter.  The  ringing  music  of 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


this  mirth  was  absorbed  by  the  ear  like  music. 
Hogg's  eye  wandered  in  transports  of  admiration 
from  the  light  brown  hair  to  the  hues  of  the  rose 
in  the  cheeks  of  the  fair  girl.  He  suppressed  a 
sigh  as  he  eyed  the  round  and  dimpled  chin. 
There  was  not  a  line  of  intellectuality  in  the  whole 
face  but  its  loveliness  lost  no  infantile  quality 
through  that  circumstance.  In  the  first  flush  of 
youth,  clinging  by  nature  and  by  instinct,  sweet 
in  temper,  Mrs.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  looked  a 
girl  who  should  be  learning  to  spell  rather  than 
a  wife  and  mother. 

One  look  at  Miss  Eliza  Westbrook  was  suffi- 
cient to  reveal  how  greatly  she  was  the  superior  of 
her  sister  Harriet  in  years.  Mrs.  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley  was  fifteen  years  younger  than  her  trim 
and  neat  sister  Eliza.  The  elder  Miss  Westbrook 
had  many  of  the  traits  which  made  the  character 
of  her  father — known  to  his  intimates  as  "Jew" 
Westbrook — respected  rather  than  loved.  She 
had  in  her  earlier  years  officiated  as  maid  of  all 
work  in  the  coffee  house  from  which  the  snug 
fortune  of  her  father  had  been  derived.  She  re- 

So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men: 
1   ^  O       A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 


Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when        T   C  T 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its  light  0 

tained  even  after  the  lapse  of  many  years  the 
characteristics  she  had  acquired  in  serving  the 
patrons  of  her  father's  hostelry.  She  spoke  with 
peremptory  respectfulness.  She  marched  rather 
than  walked.  She  avoided  smiling  into  the  face 
of  any  male,  lest  he  think  her  wanting  in  maidenly 
modesty.  She  was  positive  in  statement.  In 
short,  the  virtues  which  make  a  barmaid  valuable 
to  the  keeper  of  a  public  house  were  all  conspicu- 
ous in  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
The  maternal  relation  they  sustained  to  one  an- 
other was  indicated  by  the  pet  name  Harriet  be- 
stowed upon  Eliza:  "Mummy."  On  formal  oc- 
casions Miss  Westbrook  was  addressed  by  her 
young  sister  as  Eliza. 

The  straightness  of  the  sapling  suggested  itself 
in  the  slightest  motion  of  Miss  Eliza  Westbrook. 
She  moved  or  rather  glided  across  the  room  much 
as  some  mast  in  the  light  of  the  moon  might  out- 
line itself  against  the  sky  on  a  lone  sea.  She  was 
as  ghostly  as  that  sort  of  thing  in  her  personal 
deportment.  She  was  silent  but  it  was  a  stern 
and  prim  silence.  She  was  neat,  but  it  was  a 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


stern  and  prim  neatness.  The  one  attractive  thing 
about  her  head  was  the  tremendous  mass  of  ex- 
ceedingly black  hair  which  crowned  it.  This  hair 
showed  traces  of  most  careful  treatment.  Not  a 
strand  was  in  disorder.  Not  a  coil  of  it  was  mis- 
placed upon  her  brow  or  at  the  back  of  her  head. 
Abundant,  glossy,  black  as  a  sloe  and  instinct  with 
a  life  that  seemed  at  moments  apart  from  her  own, 
the  hair  of  Miss  Eliza  Westbrook  indicated  that 
she  spent  many  hours  of  every  day  in  its  arrange- 
ment. This  was  in  truth  the  case.  Apart  from 
her  hair,  she  had  nothing  lovely  in  the  appear- 
ance of  her  face.  It  was  disfigured  by  the  pittings 
of  small-pox,  a  disease  which  wrought  much  havoc 
with  female  beauty  in  an  age  to  which  vaccine 
therapy  was  unknown.  Her  neck  was  long. 
Her  ears  were  large.  Her  skin  was  the  colour  of 
boiled  rice. 

"  'Arriet,  my  love,"  interrupted  her  sister,  like  a 
marble  statue  coming  suddenly  to  a  brief  and  fitful 
life,  "  remember  your  nerves !  " 

Harriet  took  her  pocket  handkerchief  from  her 
belt  and  applied  it  to  her  pretty  eyes.  Hogg,  who 

Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps 

I    k  2  the  spirit's  awful  night." 


Thus  ceased  she:  and  the  mountain  shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent; 


had  resumed  the  chair  in  which  the  ladies  found 
him  when  they  entered,  got  upon  his  large  feet 
once  more.  He  placed  a  box  at  the  disposal  of 
Harriet.  There  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  offer 
her.  The  great  arm  chair  in  which  he  was  en- 
sconced precluded  its  occupancy  by  a  prettily 
dressed  lady  because  of  a  too  soiled  condition. 
Harriet,  however,  did  not  wish  to  lose  the  ad- 
vantage which  comes  to  an  orator  in  the  upright 
attitude.  She  took  no  notice  of  the  civility. 

"I  have  come,  Mr.  Hogg,"  began  Harriet,  "to 
see  if  your  influence  over  my  husband  can  be  ex- 
erted in  favour  of  his  wife  and  child." 

"  Good  God !  "  cried  Hogg,  staggering  back  into 
the  armchair  out  of  which  this  irruption  had 
startled  him.  He  sat  in  stupefaction,  staring  at 
little  Mrs.  Shelley. 

From  the  pink  ribbon,  tied  coquettishly  in  the 
masses  of  her  sunny  brown  hair,  to  the  silver 
buckles  on  her  dainty  furred  boots,  the  aspect  of 
this  pretty  nineteen-year-old  wife  and  mother  was 
one  of  neatness  incarnate.  The  face  was  pink 
and  white.  Its  sweetness  was  further  embel- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


lished  by  eyes  of  which  the  baby  blue  borrowed 
an  additional  gleam  from  their  roundness  and  their 
largeness.  The  little  nose  was  perfection  in  its 
straight  line,  terminating  in  nostrils  as  delicately 
curved  as  the  tendrils  of  the  grape  in  the  wall 
paper  of  this  disordered  room.  She  had  so  arch  a 
mouth,  all  curves  and  carmine,  that  its  very 
gravity  was  of  the  dimpled  and  childish  order. 
She  held  her  delicate  head  poised  on  one  side  as 
if  to  set  off  the  tracery  of  the  curved  neck,  white 
like  the  face  and  flushing  or  paling  as  she  peered 
first  at  Hogg  and  next  at  Shelley.  One  dimin- 
utive pink  and  white  hand  was  on  the  knob  of  the 
door.  The  wrist  that  tapered  roundly  up  to  the 
arm  and  outlined  that  arm  all  the  better  though 
its  delicacy  was  hidden  by  the  suggestion  of  lace 
cuffs,  not  so  white  nor  so  delicate  as  the  complex- 
ion of  this  girl  wife.  The  slim  waist,  the  tender 
bust  and  the  outline  of  the  hips  formed  lines  too 
maddening  for  the  eye  to  contemplate  without 
desire. 

"I  would  have  Mr.  Shelley  understand,"  pro- 
ceeded the  small  Harriet,  putting  her  hands  to 

The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
J.   £  <4i       Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 


An  early  but  enduring  monument, 

Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 


the  strings  of  her  bonnet  as  if  she  felt  a  choking 
sensation,  "  that  I  regard  myself  as  in  all  respects 
his  social  equal.  I  have  heard  some  talk  about 
my  father's  calling.  I  do  not  see  that  his  money 
was  made  in  any  way  less  creditable  to  him  than 
the  fortune  of  Sir  Bysshe  Shelley.  I  am  told  that 
Sir  Bysshe  made  his  money  by  running  away  with 
heiresses.  My  father  made  his  money  out  of  a 
coffee  house.  I  know  that  Mr.  Shelley  was  glad 
enough  to  live  upon  my  father's  money  when  — " 

There  was  a  sudden  choking  in  the  voice  of  the 
pretty  creature.  Hogg,  who  had  listened  to  Har- 
riet with  deference,  endeavoured  to  say  a  word. 
She  was  too  quick  for  him. 

"Mr.  Shelley,"  proceeded  Harriet,  "does  not 
seem  to  think  he  has  married  a  lady.  He  does  not 
treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  lady  born.  He  seems  to 
think  any  mode  of  life  suitable  to  the  mother  of 
his  child  and  the  wife  who  bears  his  name.  I  want 
Mr.  Shelley  to  understand  that  I  am  not  the  crea- 
ture he  has  been  abusing  for  so  long.  I  intend 
that  he  shall  be  made  to  treat  me  with  the  respect 
due  to  a  wife." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Shelley  flicked  a  pellet  of  the  dough  he  had 
mixed.  It  went  straight  at  the  head  of  his  little 
wife,  who  dodged  it  without  seeming  to  be  aware 
that  she  did  so.  During  the  debate,  or  rather  the 
monologue,  these  pellets  did  not  cease  to  fly  from 
the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  the  poet.  Not  that 
he  aimed  in  any  spirit  of  combat.  He  appeared 
to  be  acting  from  force  of  habit  and  impersonally, 
even  when  he  sent  a  pellet  of  bread  straight  at 
the  head  of  Miss  Eliza  Westbrook  herself.  That 
swarthy  lady  did  not  at  first  seem  to  care  whether 
the  pellets  hit  her  or  not.  One  stung  her  on  the 
cheek.  She  paid  not  the  least  heed  to  it.  An- 
other struck  her  fairly  on  the  brow.  To  this  she 
was  as  oblivious  as  before.  She  never  flinched 
when  the  bombardment  began.  The  aim  of 
Shelley  was  from  long  practise  perfect.  He  could 
touch  his  man  or  his  woman  from  any  angle  and 
at  almost  any  distance.  The  luckless  Harriet  was 
the  principal  victim  on  the  present  occasion.  As 
she  stood  in  the  doorway  her  head  and  her  neck 
and  her  bosom  formed  too  conspicuous  a  target  for 
a  marksman  so  expert  as  the  husband  against 


156 


In  sorrow;  form  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 


And  Love  taught  Grief  to  fall  like  music 
from  his  tongue. 


whom  she  had  come  to  proffer  her  complaint. 
The  floor  at  her  feet  was  in  almost  no  time  cov- 
ered with  the  pellets  which  ere  they  fell  stung 
her  on  the  cheek  or  on  the  brow  or  on  the  hand. 

"No  one  realizes  as  well  as  I,"  Harriet  per- 
sisted, fixing  her  round  eyes  upon  the  staring 
Hogg,  who  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  breaking  in 
upon  her  flow  of  protest,  "no  one  realizes  so  well 
as  I  how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  talk  philos- 
ophy with  Mr.  Shelley.  He  prefers  his  philos- 
ophy to  his  wife.  He  talks  philosophy  with  the 
young  ladies  he  meets  at  Mr.  William  God- 
win's—" 

The  attentive  countenance  of  Hogg  was  di- 
verted by  that  hint  to  the  face  of  Shelley.  The 
poet  was  prostrate  in  front  of  the  fire  into  which 
he  was  now  thrusting  the  poker.  Harriet's  eyes 
followed  the  direction  of  Hogg's.  She  raised  her 
voice. 

"Mr.  Shelley  excuses  himself  when  he  is  ac- 
cused of  making  love  to  Fanny  by  saying  that 
he  seeks  her  improvement,  the  uplift  of  her 
mind—" 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Fanny!"     Hogg  was  incredulous. 

"It  was  Fanny,"  said  Harriet.  "It  may  be 
Claire  now.  Tomorrow  it  will  be  Mary.  These 
young  ladies  seem  to  take  pleasure  in  talking  over 
their  philosophical  ideas  with  another  woman's 
husband." 

"My  dear  Harriet,"  put  in  the  persuasive  but 
sarcastic  Hogg,  "you  have  yourself  been  the  cause 
of  your  husband's  lack  of  interest  in  your  intellec- 
tual life.  I  do  not  remember  having  heard  you 
read  aloud  to  us  once  since  the  birth  of  your 
child." 

"  'Arriet,  my  dear,"  put  in  the  stern  sister  from 
her  station  beside  the  window,  "remember  your 
nerves!" 

"Neither  do  you  read  much  to  yourself,"  re- 
sumed the  sagacious  Hogg,  ignoring  this  last  re- 
mark. "Your  studies,  which  had  been  so  con- 
stand  and  so  exemplary,  have  dwindled  to  noth- 
ing. It  is  true  that  Bysshe  has  ceased  to  express 
the  least  interest  in  them." 

He  looked  over  to  the  poet  as  he  said  so  and 
exchanged  with  him  a  slight  smile. 


158 


Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form 
A  phantom  among  men;  companionless 


As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess, 


From  the  first  moment  of  her  entry  into  the 
apartment  of  Shelley,  Eliza  Westbrook  had  not 
spoken  to  either  of  the  young  men.  Picking  her 
way  warily  along  the  floor,  avoiding  a  boot  as  if 
it  were  a  serpent  and  stepping  out  of  the  way  of  a 
cake  or  a  classic  like  a  pedestrian  in  the  Strand 
on  a  rainy  day,  Miss  Eliza  Westbrook  had  reached 
the  window.  There  she  took  up  her  station,  as  if 
she  were  a  sentinel  on  guard.  Not  once  did  she 
take  her  eye  from  her  sister's  face.  During  the 
progress  of  the  colloquy  in  which  Harriet  bore  so 
important  a  part,  the  pretty  Mrs.  Shelley  looked 
up  to  her  sister  beside  the  window,  like  an  actor 
in  a  play  listening  for  the  signal  of  a  prompter. 
Hogg,  on  his  side,  paid  no  attention  to  Miss  West- 
brook.  She  had  bestowed  upon  him  a  look  of 
disgust  no  less  intense  than  the  one  she  gave 
Shelley. 

"The  scandal  my  husband  has  caused  in  every 
household  he  enters  is  one  reason  I  must  leave 
him,"  Harriet  cried  now.  She  had  wiped  away 
a  tear  or  two  which  dropped  down  her  cheek  when 
first  she  opened  her  pretty  mouth  to  address  Hogg. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Mr.  Shelley  seems  to  have  become  utterly  de- 
praved and  sensual.  He  is  always  making  love  to 
married  ladies — " 

Hogg  crimsoned. 

"Making  love  to  married  ladies?" 

Hogg,  having  repeated  so  much,  looked  across 
to  the  window  where  Eliza  Westbrook  stood  like 
a  statue  of  duty.  He  got  no  glance  in  return 
from  Harriet's  sister.  She  seemed  absorbed  in 
the  floor.  Hogg  could  but  look  back  to  Harriet, 
since  Shelley  himself  refused  to  meet  his  eye. 

"Shelley  does  not  make  love  to  married  ladies. 
You  do  not  understand  a  way  he  has  with  all 
women." 

"The  gentleman  where  we  lodged  had  to  remove 
his  wife  from  the  city  to  escape  my  husband's 
odious  attentions  and  advances." 

Hogg  whistled.     Then  he  suppressed  a  grin. 

"  'Arriet,  my  love,"  the  stern  sister  was  heard 
to  say  once  more  in  her  sharp  accents,  "remember 
your  nerves !" 

Hogg  apostrophized  the  ceiling  in  Shelley's 
manner.  One  might  conjecture  that  he  had 

X  Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 

I  OO       Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 


With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness,  TOT 

And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way, 

caught  the  trick  from  his  gifted  and  inspired 
friend. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said.     "Those  nerves !" 

"Mr.  Shelley  must  likewise  abandon  his  vice 
of  laudanum,"  Harriet  now  resumed,  referring  as 
she  spoke  to  a  paper  in  her  hand.  She  seemed 
to  have  compiled  a  list  of  Shelley's  shortcom- 
ings and  to  be  using  it  as  a  memorandum,  after  the 
fashion  of  public  speakers  with  bad  memories. 
"Mr.  Shelley  must  abandon  his  vice  of  lauda- 
num— " 

"Laudanum !" 

Hogg  repeated  the  word  in  amazement  and 
gazed  across  the  table  to  where  the  poet  was  seated 
upon  the  carpet.  Shelley  flicked  a  pellet  of  bread 
straight  at  Hogg's  nose,  which  organ  suffered  a 
smart  sting.  Otherwise  he  made  no  observation. 

"Laudanum,"  went  on  Mrs.  Shelley.  "I  find 
this  vice  of  his  intolerable.  It  is  undermining  his 
character — " 

"I  never  heard  of  Shelley's  being  the  slave  of 
opium  or  laudanum,"  began  Hogg. 

Those  words  seemed  to  act  like  a  battery  upon 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


the  frigid  Miss  Eliza  Westbrook.  She  came  out 
of  the  trance  in  which  she  had  been  plunged  be- 
side the  window.  Opening  the  black  bag  she 
clutched,  the  elderly  spinster  withdrew  from  it 
three  small  bottles.  These  she  took  out  one  by 
one  in  silence. 

"These  are  the  proofs  of  my  husband's  vice," 
cried  Harriet,  holding  the  bottles  up  to  Hogg's  in- 
spection in  triumph. 

That  gentleman  gazed  blankly,  gasped  and  re- 
lapsed into  the  ample  arm  chair  which  had  been 
his  coign  of  vantage  during  this  scene.  Mrs. 
Shelley  handed  the  bottles  back  to  her  sister  the 
moment  her  demonstration  had  been  made.  The 
black  bag  closed  over  the  evidence  of  Shelley's 
guilt  with  a  snap. 

"Mr.  Shelley  has  neglected  to  support  his  wife 
in  the  manner  becoming  her  position  as  the  bearer 
of  a  great  name,"  Harriet  broke  in  now,  having 
consulted  her  written  memorandum  for  the  re- 
freshment of  her  memory.  "Neither  I  nor  my 
child  have  enough  to  eat  or  proper  clothes  to 
wear — " 

^  Pursued,  like  raging  hounds, 

1  \J  2*  their  father  and  their  prey. 


A  pardlikc  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked; — a  Power 


163 


"Harriet!"  interrupted  the  incorrigible  Hogg, 
dodging  a  pellet  from  the  fingers  of  Shelley  with 
such  success  that  it  struck  Miss  Westbrook  in  the 
eye,  "have  you  not  been  running  to  milliners  and 
dressmakers  for  the  last  month1?" 

"I  am  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  my  Pa's  house 
at  Bath,"  went  on  Harriet,  paying  no  more  atten- 
tion to  Hogg's  comments  than  he  paid  to  her  sis- 
ter's. "I  must  have  a  roof  over  my  head  and 
Mr.  Shelley  fails  to  provide  me  with  that.  I  am 
forced  to  return  to  my  Pa." 

"Don't!"  implored  Hogg  in  obvious  distress. 

"My  dear  Harriet,"  repeated  the  elder  sister, 
"remember  your  nerves !" 

Hogg  faced  Eliza  in  his  irritation.  He  opened 
his  mouth  but  shut  it  again  without  speaking. 

The  flow  of  words  upon  which  the  dainty  Har- 
riet had  launched  herself  as  if  it  were  a  sea  had  its 
tide  checked  by  the  slamming  of  the  front  door 
below.  It  was  a  loud  and  tremendous  slam.  It 
heralded  the  arrival  of  an  impatient  and  insistent 
caller.  For  a  brief  instant  the  ears  of  Hogg  were 
cocked  in  alarm. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Hide!" 

The  word  was  spoken  to  Shelley.  It  was  a 
command.  The  poet  darted  to  the  trunk  upon 
which  his  books  and  retorts  were  piled  in  indis- 
criminate confusion.  In  a  trice  he  had  lifted  the 
massive  lid  and  dived  below  to  the  very  depths  of 
the  receptacle.  The  lid  fell  upon  him.  Hogg 
seated  himself  upon  the  baggage. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley?" 

The  words  were  uttered  in  rough  accents.  A 
long,  lean  fellow  had  thrust  an  unshorn  head 
through  the  door.  Harriet  shrank  into  the  angle 
of  the  door,  cowering  there  in  alarm.  Her  sister 
stood  as  immovable  as  ever. 

Hogg  did  not  .look  at  the  intruder. 

"What  if  I  am  Mr.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley*?"  he 
asked,  with  an  air  of  defiance,  folding  his  arms. 

The  answer  was  spoken  in  a  smooth  and  oily 
accent  by  a  second  bailiff,  who  now  strode  through 
the  door.  This  man  was  all  courtesy.  He  fol- 
lowed his  associate  into  the  room,  at  the  confusion 
of  which  he  glanced  with  significant  looks. 

"We  know  very  well  that  you  are  the  de- 


164 


Girt  round  with  weakness ; — it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour; 


It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower,  T  ^  C 

A  breaking  billow; — even  whilst  we  speak  * 

fendant,"  he  spoke  up,  with  an  ingratiating  smile. 
"It  would  be  useless  for  you  to  deny  it." 

"In  that  event,"  answered  Hogg,  "I  will  not 
try  to  deny  it." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  long  and  lean  one,  rather 
insolently,  "we  have  an  attachment." 

He  produced  a  writ  and  waved  it  with  some 
solemnity. 

"The  sooner  you  make  ready  to  go  with  us,"  he 
observed,  "the  sooner  you  can  settle  the  bill  for  the 
carriage  and  the  harness." 

"Is  it  a  livery  bill?"  asked  Hogg. 

The  oily  one  laughed. 

"You'll  find  out  all  about  it  at  his  Worship's." 

"I  am  ready  to  go  with  you,"  said  the  phil- 
osophical Hogg,  who  had  donned  his  hat  and  taken 
up  his  great  coat.  "But  I  tell  you  this  is  a  mis- 
take." 

The  bailiffs  laughed. 

"That,"  said  the  oily  one,  "is  what  they  all 
say." 

The  little  fellow  laid  a  hand  upon  the  arm  of 
Hogg.  Together  the  three  descended  to  the  lower 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


landing.  In  another  moment  the  front  door  had 
slammed  behind  the  trio. 

The  sound  was  simultaneous  with  the  elevation 
of  the  lid  of  the  trunk  in  which  the  poet  had  lain 
concealed.  His  head  emerged  with  the  precip- 
itation of  a  missile  flung  from  a  catapult.  He 
faced  his  wife  with  hair  like  quills  and  a  great 
lump  of  wet  bread  in  one  hand.  She  burst  into 
the  loudest  laughter. 

"I  feel  as  if  this  occurrence  had  deprived  me 
of  the  breath  of  life,"  he  began,  "which  now  with 
such  eagerness  I  inhale." 

Harriet  shrieked  in  laughter. 

"This  is  no  place  for  us,"  broke  in  Miss  Eliza 
Westbrook,  coming  from  her  place  of  refuse  at  the 
window  and  taking  her  sister  by  the  arm.  "We 
must  be  off  to  Bath.  The  coach  leaves  in  less  than 
an  hour." 

Shelley  waved  a  distracted  arm. 

"Preserve  your  individuality,"  he  called  to  his 
wife,  who  was  receding  to  the  door  as  if  under 
arrest  by  her  sister.  "Reason  for  yourself! 
Compare  and  discuss  with  me!  I  will  do  the 

j?  £       Is  it  not  broken  ?     On  the  withering  flower 
A  OO       The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly:  on  a  cheek 


The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  TOT 

the  heart  may  break.  / 

same  with  you.  Are  you  not  my  second  self,  the 
stronger  shadow  of  that  soul  whose  dictates  I 
have  been  accustomed  to  obey?" 

The  ladies  were  now  on  the  threshold.  As 
they  departed,  Miss  Westbrook  bringing  up  the 
rear,  Shelley  let  fly  the  lump  of  bread.  It 
caught  Miss  Westbrook  fairly  in  the  small  of  the 
back  and  bespattered  her  dress  with  its  spreading 
stains. 


Elopement 


VIII 
THE  LOVES  OF  THE  POET  SHELLEY 

""W  "W"  T  HEN  Fanny  was  packed  off  to 
%M/       Wales  I  thought  we  could  deal 

Y  T  with  that  mad  Shelley !" 
Mrs.  Godwin  stood  in  the  Juvenile  Library, 
gazing  out  into  Skinner  Street  through  the  win- 
dows of  that  decaying  establishment.  A  porter 
was  lazily  swabbing  the  glass  panes.  Mary  God- 
win, with  a  copy  of  "A  Vindication  of  the  Rights 
of  Woman"  under  her  arm,  stood  in  her  tartan 
dress  and  smiled  inscrutably.  There  was  so 
troubled  an  expression  upon  the  countenance  of  the 
stepmother  that  it  actually  heightened  the  look  of 
serenity  and  even  of  happiness  upon  the  face  of 
the  stepdaughter.  Those  who  knew  the  secrets  of 
Godwin's  life  with  his  second  spouse  understood 
perfectly  that  whenever  the  face  of  that  lady 
lighted  beatifically  the  features  of  the  pretty 

S  O       His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 
I  O  O       And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue; 


And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses  grew 


daughter  of  his  first  wife  fell  correspondingly.  So 
it  was  now.  The  name  of  Shelley  was  the  present 
provocation. 

"No  wonder  they  call  him  the  mad  Shelley," 
resumed  Mrs.  Godwin,  averting  her  green  spec- 
tacles from  Skinner  Street  at  last.  "He  has  been 
in  love  with  poor  Fanny.  Of  that  I  am  sure. 
She's  gone.  Now  he  has  eyes  for  no  one  but 
Claire.  He's  forgotten  Fanny." 

"Mr.  Shelley  is  not  happy  in  his  home  life." 

This  observation  from  Mary  provoked  Mrs. 
Godwin  afresh.  She  turned  the  green  spectacles 
upon  Mary. 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  Mr.  Shelley's 
domestic  misery,"  v/as  her  sharp  retort.  "Is  that 
why  he  spends  his  time  with  you*?" 

Mary  Godwin  coloured. 

"You  just  said  he  was  mad  after  Claire." 

"I  said  he  was  teaching  her  the  Italian  lan- 
guage," snapped  Mrs.  Godwin.  "But  I  see  what 
you  mean.  Your  insane  jealousy  —  " 

But  Mary  Godwin  would  not  stay  to  hear  more. 
Her  ears  had  been  assailed  too  repeatedly  on  the 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


subject  of  Shelley.  She  did  not  choose  to  be  lec- 
tured by  a  stepmother  whom  she  loathed.  Mrs. 
Godwin,  on  her  side,  did  not  care  to  be  made  a 
target  for  the  caustic  remarks  of  one  who  regarded 
her  as  an  interloper. 

The  Skinner  Street  entrance  of  the  Juvenile 
Library  was  opened  for  the  first  time  that  morn- 
ing. Mrs.  Godwin,  who  had  gone  to  the  back  of 
the  establishment  to  sort  some  newly  arrived  clas- 
sics, advanced  with  eager  interest.  It  had  oc- 
curred to  her  that  at  last  the  eager  public  was 
arriving.  There  would  ensue  literary  trans- 
actions of  an  important  nature.  That  was  her 
ambition.  She  intended  that  the  Juvenile  Library 
should  not  only  make  her  fortune  but  constitute 
in  a  sense  her  monument,  her  memorial,  with  pos- 
terity. The  dream  had  not  come  true  yet.  The 
fact  did  not  daunt  Mrs.  Godwin.  She  never 
heard  the  shop  door  open  without  feeling  that  the 
great  hour  was  at  last  about  to  strike.  Thus  she 
felt  now. 

She  hastened  forward  with  an  eager  smile  to 
greet  the  pair  of  ladies  who  had  just  entered. 

Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 
I    I  O       Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 


Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that  crew          T  T  T 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart;  / 


The  visitors  were  no  less  important  a  pair  than 
Miss  Eliza  Westbrook  and  her  little  sister,  Mrs. 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  The  pretty  wife  of  the 
poet  was  very  pale.  Mrs.  Godwin  did  not  have 
to  look  into  the  sweet  face  more  than  once  to 
divine  some  tragedy.  The  grim  and  swarthy  vis- 
age of  Eliza  was  impenetrable,  even  forbidding. 
She  stood  glaring  about  the  rows  of  volumes  on 
the  shelves  of  the  Juvenile  Library  like  a  person 
who  associated  sin  and  error  with  literature.  In 
truth,  this  state  of  mind  was  characteristic  of  Miss 
Eliza  Westbrook.  Her  experience  of  the  literary 
had  not  prejudiced  her  in  their  favour.  She  re- 
garded poets  and  prose  writers  with  peculiar  ab- 
horrence as  a  breed  of  men  and  women  with  scant 
respect  for  the  moralities  and  the  conventions. 
She  had  at  first  been  open-minded  on  the  subject 
of  poetry.  Her  intercourse  with  Shelley  had  led 
her  to  infer  that  men  of  genius  went  in  for  atheism 
and  all  that  is  subversive.  A  poet  meant  to  Miss 
Westbrook  an  individual  with  a  tendency  to 
throw  pellets  of  bread  at  people  and  a  tendency  to 
speak  lightly  of  sacred  things. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"My  dear  child,"  broke  out  Mrs.  Godwin  as 
soon  as  she  could  find  a  voice,  "I  understood  that 
you  had  gone  to  Bath  to  visit  your  Pa." 

"She  was  goin',  ma'am,"  put  in  Eliza,  "but  hin 
consequence  hof  what  'as  'appened,  she  'as  post- 
poned 'er  visit." 

Mrs.  Godwin  was  not  disposed  to  engage  her- 
self in  any  conversation  with  the  formidable  sister 
of  the  sweet  Mrs.  Shelley.  She  turned  from  the 
former  to  the  latter  like  a  child  turning  from  a 
medicine  to  a  sweetmeat. 

"We  have  come  to  see  Mr.  Godwin  !"  Harriet 
said  this  in  so  still  and  small  a  voice  that  it  lent 
an  additional  touch  of  tragedy  to  her  aspect. 

"Mr.  Godwin  !"  echoed  his  wife.  "Of  course, 
you  shall  see  Mr.  Godwin,  my  dear,  if  you  wish 
it." 

The  fat  lady  in  the  green  spectacles  kissed 
the  little  Harriet  and  besought  her  to  enter  a  most 
sacred  place  —  her  own  sitting  room.  Eliza  fol- 
lowed through  the  rear  of  the  Juvenile  Library 
and  on  up  the  crazy  stairs  to  a  tiny  room.  This 
had  long  been  set  apart  for  the  greater  privacy  of 


A  herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by 
the  hunter's  dart. 


All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  T  fj  *y 

partial  moan  /  J 


Mrs.  Godwin  in  moments  of  recuperation  from 
the  ordeal  of  keeping  house  for  a  literary  group. 
It  was  a  neat  little  room,  with  a  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Godwin's  first  husband  on  the  wall  over  a  giant 
chimney  piece.  This  portrait  corresponded  to 
that  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  on  the  wall  of  God- 
win's own  study. 

"Just  you  wait  here,  my  dear,"  besought  Mrs. 
Godwin,  offering  a  seat  to  Harriet,  she  allowing 
Eliza  to  dispose  of  herself  as  best  she  could  upon 
a  hard  sofa.  "Mr.  Godwin  is  in  his  study.  I 
will  let  him  know  you  are  here." 

Mrs.  Godwin  did  not  immediately  enter  the 
remote  and  sequestered  region  of  her  husband's 
study.  Instead,  she  fairly  flew  up  the  stairs  de- 
spite the  weight  of  her  fleshy  limbs.  She  was 
out  of  breath  by  the  time  she  had  reached  the 
tiny  attic  in  which  Fanny  slept  when  at  home. 
The  bare  room  was  at  this  present  time  given 
over  to  the  use  of  Mary.  That  young  lady  was 
now  seated  in  a  great  arm  chair  devoting  her 
mind  to  a  Shelley  pamphlet  upon  the  subject  of 
deism. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Mrs.  Shelley  is  downstairs,"  said  Mrs.  God- 
win abruptly.  "She  wants  to  see  your  father." 

For  a  moment  these  two  exchanged  significant 
looks.  Dismay  was  upon  both  faces. 

"Pa  can't  be  disturbed,"  was  all  Mary  thought 
of  saying. 

"He  must  be  disturbed,"  insisted  Mrs.  God- 
win. "That  poor  little  creature  seems  to  have 
broken  her  heart." 

Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Bending  her 
eyes  once  more  upon  the  Shelley  pamphlet,  she 
took  no  notice  of  her  stepmother.  This  behaviour 
infuriated  Mrs.  Godwin.  Mary  realized  that  and 
was  delighted  in  consequence.  Mrs.  Godwin  had 
meant  to  inflict  upon  Mary  the  duty  of  disturbing 
her  father  in  his  study — a  thing  she  hated  to  do 
herself.  Few  there  were  who  dared  even  in  that 
disorganized  and  undisciplined  family  burst  in 
upon  the  great  man  in  his  moments  of  literary 
creation. 

"Will  you  tell  your  father  Mrs.  Shelley  is 
here?" 

Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders  once  more  but 

Smiled  through  their  tears;  well  knew  that 
1/4  gentle  band 


Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own ; 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land, 


did  not  otherwise  give  any  sign  of  heeding  the 
request. 

"You  bold  minx!"  was  Mrs.  Godwin's  com- 
ment. "You're  the  deep  one!" 

The  spectacled  lady  returned  to  her  own 
sitting  room  without  breaking  in  upon  her 
husband. 

"My  husband  will  be  delighted  to  see  you," 
she  said  to  Harriet,  with  her  sweetest  smile. 

Mrs.  Godwin  led  the  way  to  her  husband's 
study  and  without  more  ado  broke  in  upon  the 
meditations  of  the  object  of  Shelley's  idolatry. 

The  author  of  that  gigantic  epoch-making  work, 
"Political  Justice,"  was  seated  as  usual  in  front 
of  the  old  desk  at  which  he  spent  so  many  hours  of 
each  day.  His  pen  was  busy.  His  great  bald 
head  was  bent  over  a  pile  of  papers.  He  could 
hardly  divine  at  first  the  nature  of  this  invasion. 
He  gazed  at  the  face  of  the  sweet  Harriet,  who 
went  in  first,  then  at  the  lean  and  yellow  coun- 
tenance of  Eliza,  who  went  next,  and  finally  at 
his  wife's  spectacles.  He  was  so  overwhelmed 
at  the  audacity  of  the  intrusion  that  he  stared  in 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


speechless  amazement  until  Harriet  had  seated 
herself  in  a  small  chair  at  his  elbow. 

"Mr.  Godwin,"  she  began,  "my  husband  has 
confessed  to  me  that  he  loves  your  daughter 
Mary." 

Godwin  laid  aside  his  quill  to  gaze  at  the 
tear-stained  face  of  the  little  lady.  Then  he 
looked  blankly  at  Eliza,  who  was  on  the  sofa  op- 
posite the  portrait  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft. 
Mrs.  Godwin  had  gone  over  to  the  window  and 
was  gazing  across  Skinner  Street. 

"Mr.  Shelley  told  me  himself  last  night  that 
he  had  just  fallen  madly  in  love  with  Mary  God- 
win." 

The  eyes  of  the  sweet  faced  Harriet  filled  with 
tears.  She  looked  as  she  spoke  right  into  the  eyes 
of  the  cold  Godwin.  He  turned  from  them  when 
the  tears  came.  He  seemed  more  moved  than  any 
member  of  that  household  had  seen  him  for  a 
long  time.  Mrs.  Godwin  returning  from  the  win- 
dow, opened  her  fat  arms  for  the  head  of  the  woe- 
begone Harriet.  The  little  wife  of  Shelley  made 
no  further  effort  to  maintain  a  courage  she  had 


176 


He  sung  new  sorrow;  sad  Urania 
scanned 


The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured :  T  T  T 

"Who  art  thou?"  /   / 


assumed.  She  relapsed  into  the  arms  of  Mrs. 
Godwin  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"We  were  so  happy  for  the  past  few  months," 
she  sobbed.  "I  thought  our  troubles  were  over 
until  he  began  to  come  here  and  to  meet  the  young 
ladies  in  Skinner  Street." 

"Were  there  not — ahem! — troubles — before?" 

In  reply  to  this  query  from  Godwin,  Harriet 
lifted  her  tear-stained  face  from  the  lap  of  the 
obese  lady. 

"There  had  been  trouble,"  she  confessed. 
"Mr.  Shelley  fell  violently  in  love  with  Mrs. 
Turner  last  November." 

"Tut,  tut,  my  dear,"  interposed  Mrs.  Godwin, 
patting  the  head  of  the  little  wife  and  seating  her 
on  a  mass  of  volumes  near  one  of  the  book  cases. 
"He's  all  over  that,  now,  isn't  he?" 

The  fat  woman  bestowed  herself  upon  the  floor 
beside  Harriet  and  drew  the  little  wife's  childish 
face  to  her  breast. 

"He's  all  over  that,"  sobbed  Harriet.  "But 
this  new  trouble  is  serious." 

"I  thought  it  was  Fanny  to  whom  Mr.  Shelley 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


had  been  imparting — ideas."  Godwin  added  the 
last  word  after  some  little  hesitation. 

"He  told  me  last  night  that  he  is  infatuated 
with  Mary,"  rejoined  Harriet,  lifting  her  head 
from  the  ample  bosom  of  Godwin's  second  wife. 

"Did  he  say  infatuated*?" 

"Not  that — he  said  love,"  agreed  Harriet,  in 
reply  to  Godwin,  who  had  put  the  query. 

"I  thought  it  was  Claire,"  observed  Mrs.  God- 
win, with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "When  Fanny  left  it 
did  seem  to  me  that  they  were  in  love  with  one 
another.  She  did  more  loving  than  Mr.  Shelley 
did." 

Eliza  waved  an  arm.  It  was  her  mode  of  ex- 
pressing an  extreme  disgust. 

"Hit's  hall  the  poetry,"  she  insisted.  "Hi  tell 
'Arriet  hover  hand  hover  that  hif  Mr.  Shelley 
wants  so  much  poetry,  why  does  'e  get  hit  from 
hother  women*?" 

Godwin  glanced  at  the  speaker.  He  was  evi- 
dently as  much  puzzled  by  the  circumstance  as 
was  the  sister-in-law  of  the  poet  himself.  The 
query  in  one  form  or  another  had  been  much  in 


178 


He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 


Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's — oh,  T  T  O 

that  it  should  be  so!  /  X 


his  thoughts  since  his  first  knowledge  of  Shelley's 
existence. 

"Does  Mrs.  Shelley  care  for  poetry?"  he  asked. 

Godwin  injected  himself  actively  into  the  dis- 
cussion. It  had  been  his  aim  to  stand  aloof,  to 
play  the  serene  and  detached  observer  of  crises. 
He  found  now  that  he  had  a  share  in  it.  The 
revelation  concerning  his  daughter  Mary  was  a 
shock.  He  cleared  his  throat  and  relaxed  suffi- 
ciently from  his  usual  coldness  of  manner  to  look 
at  Harriet  with  a  smile — a  cold  smile,  like  the 
isolated  moonbeam  which  on  winter  nights  plays 
about  the  icicles. 

"Propinquity  accounts  for  all  that  Mr.  Shelley 
has  confessed,"  he  said.  "Propinquity." 

"Propinquity !" 

Harriet  lifted  her  head  from  the  bosom  of  Mrs. 
Godwin  to  repeat  that.  The  word  was  not  new 
to  her.  She  had  some  vague  idea  that  it  meant 
companionship,  vicinity,  perhaps  meetings.  Eliza 
did  not  possess  the  remotest  clue  to  the  mysteri- 
ous and  awful  word.  She  had  an  idea  that  it  im- 
plied a  lack  of  mental  balance  in  Shelley. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Propinquity,"  repeated  Godwin,  becoming 
grave  again.  "Mr.  Shelley  has  seen  a  good  deal 
of  Mary  in  the  last  week  or  so.  He  thinks  he 
has  fallen  in  love  with  her.  Let  him  see  less  of 
her  and  he  will  lose  his  fancy." 

Harriet  was  visibly  impressed  by  this  line  of 
reasoning.  She  ceased  to  sob  and  looked  up  into 
the  countenance  of  the  great  philosopher. 


180 


What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  ? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown? 


IX 


THE  INFATUATION  OF  JEFFERSON 
HOGG 

"^T     T"  OU  don't  think  my  husband's  fancy 
^^         for  Mary  is  a  real  one*?" 

M  There  was  a  world  of  relief  and 

of  hope  in  the  tone  of  the  little  woman's  voice. 
She  evidently  regarded  William  Godwin  as  an 
interpreter  not  of  political  justice  only  but  of  the 
intimate  sentiments  of  the  soul  and  of  the  work- 
ings of  the  heart.  There  was  something  like  a 
smile  upon  the  thin  lips  of  the  great  man  as  he 
cleared  his  throat  to  say  the  next  word. 

"I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Shelley,"  pursued  God- 
win. "In  my  letter  I  shall  explain  to  him  how 
necessary  it  is  that  his  visits  here  be  less  frequent." 

"That,"  assented  Mrs.  Godwin,  smiling  at  Har- 
riet, genially,  "is  a  good  plan." 

What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed,  Q 

In  mockery  of  monumental  stone,  1   O  1 


Shelley's 


"I  don't  know,"  Godwin  proceeded,  gravely, 
"that  he  comes  here  very  often." 

"He  comes,"  put  in  his  wife,  "too  frequently." 

"Not  according  to  my  diary,"  Godwin,  looking 
at  the  leaves  of  that  volume,  was  saying,  when  his 
wife  burst  into  a  loud  and  mocking  laugh. 

"You  don't  suppose  Mr.  Shelley  sees  you  every 
time  he  comes,  Mr.  Godwin,"  she  cried.  "There 
are  moments  when  you  can't  tell  who's  here  and 
who  isn't.  Mr.  Shelley  drops  in  and  drops  out 
without  saying  a  word  to  me  or  to  you." 

This  intelligence  confounded  Godwin.  He 
stole  a  look  at  Harriet's  clouded  brow. 

"We  shall  see,  we  shall  see,"  was  all  he  chose 
to  say.  "I  shall  have  a  long  talk  with  Mr.  Shel- 
ley and  with  Mary." 

"I  remember  when  Mrs.  Turner  was  taken  away 
by  her  husband,  Mr.  Shelley  forgot  all  about 
her." 

Harriet  gazed  into  the  eye  of  Godwin.  Her 
veneration  for  him  although  great  had  never  ap- 
proached the  idolatry  of  Shelley.  However,  it 
seemed  to  her  now  that  he  was  a  healer  to  her 

O  The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  ? 

1  O  2       If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 


Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the 
departed  one; 


,83 


soul.  He  spoke  the  word  of  hope.  Her  eyes 
danced.  She  averted  her  face  to  smile — she  was 
so  ashamed  of  her  sudden  happiness. 

"I  remember  now,"  interjected  Mrs.  Godwin, 
"how  much  attention  Mr.  Shelley  paid  Fanny. 
He  talked  to  her  of  republicanism,  of  the  regenera- 
tion of  the  world.  He  said  he  loved  her." 

"Tell  Mr.  Godwin  what  Mr.  'Ogg  said  to  you, 
'Arriet  love,"  implored  Eliza,  looking  over  to 
where  her  small  sister  was  hiding  her  blushes  in 
Mrs.  Godwin's  bosom. 

Harriet  shook  her  little  head.  Not  for  worlds 
would  she  go  over  that  episode. 

"Didn't  'e  hask  you  for  a  kiss1?" 

Harriet  nodded. 

"When  you  refused  didn't  Mr.  'Ogg  swear  and 
say  by  God  'e'd  'ave  that  kiss  or  die?" 

"Please  don't  say  anything  more  about  it, 
Eliza"  implored  Harriet. 

"You  spoke  just  now,"  said  Godwin,  "of  a 
previous  entanglement — er — or  let  us  say  a  pre- 
vious fancy  of  Mr.  Shelley's." 

"It  began  by  his  reading  Italian  with  Mrs. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Turner,"  confessed  Harriet,  her  utterance  being 
choked  by  a  great  sob. 

"That's  hit,"  cried  the  stem  Eliza,  with  a  snap 
of  her  gaunt  jaw.  "Hi  halways  says  to  'Arriet 
not  to  let  'im  be  readin'  that  poetry  all  day  long 
with  people.  Hif  'e's  so  fond  of  'is  poetry,  let 
'er  read  hit  with  'im." 

"You  say  it  began  when  he  read  Italian  to  Mrs. 
Turner*?"  asked  Mrs.  Godwin.  "Was  he  teach- 
ing her  the  language?' 

"Yes,"  replied  Harriet.  "In  no  long  time  they 
had  begun  on  Petrarch.  Then  Mr.  Turner  came 
and  stopped  the  readings.  He  took  her  away." 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Turner  now1?"  asked  Mrs.  God- 
win. 

"In  Scotland  or  in  Devonshire,  I  think." 

"Did  you  object  to  the  readings  with  Mrs. 
Turner?" 

Eliza  volunteered  an  answer. 

"Hit  would  'ave  done  no  good." 

Harriet  seemed  about  to  say  a  word  for  her- 
self but  one  glance  at  the  swarthy  face  of  Eliza 
settled  the  point. 


184 


Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 


Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — Oh!  j  Q  p* 

What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown  ^ 

"I  shall  go  to  Bath,  Mr.  Godwin,"  she  said 
sweetly.  "My  father  is  ill  and  I  think  my  little 
girl  needs  the  change  of  air." 

Godwin  seemed  about  to  proffer  an  additional 
word  but  a  look  from  his  wife  checked  him.  He 
rose  to  his  feet  as  Harriet,  following  her  sister's 
example,  stood  up.  Eliza  took  her  sister  by  the 
arm  very  much  as  a  bailiff  might  have  taken  a 
person  under  arrest.  The  elder  led  the  younger 
from  the  room,  Godwin  going  as  far  as  the  door 
as  if  still  bent  upon  offering  some  objection.  His 
wife  intercepted  him.  The  ladies  filed  out.  The 
philosopher  was  left  alone  with  the  portrait  of 
his  first  wife  for  company.  He  returned  to  his 
desk  to  spend  some  minutes  in  a  long  study  of  the 
face  of  his  dead  wife. 

Never  had  Godwin  looked  older.  The  mouth 
of  the  eminent  philosopher — a  large,  thin  mouth 
with  hardness  and  coldness  in  every  line — twitched 
nervously.  He  caught  at  the  edge  of  the  great 
desk  as  if  to  steady  himself.  Slowly  he  removed 
his  eyes  from  the  auburn  hair  of  the  head  in  the 
painting.  He  looked  about  the  room  like  a  man 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


coming  out  of  a  dream  and  went  with  tottering 
steps  to  the  door.  He  opened  it  mechanically  and 
stood  listening. 

The  voices  of  the  three  women  floated  up  to 
him  from  the  Juvenile  Library.  Mrs.  Godwin's 
deep  bass  alternated  with  the  sharp  accents  of 
Miss  Westbrook  and  the  timid  plaintive  notes  of 
Mrs.  Shelley's  voice.  He  heard  the  door  close. 
The  heavy  footfalls  of  Mrs.  Godwin  next  as- 
sailed his  ear  as  she  returned  to  her  sitting  room. 

,"Mary!"  called  Godwin,  in  a  choked  and  dry 
tone. 

He  had  to  repeat  the  name,  raising  his  voice 
many  times,  before  he  elicited  the  slightest  re- 
sponse. At  last  a  pair  of  light  feet  scurried  from 
the  upper  regions.  A  fresh  young  voice  answered 
"Pa!"  The  familiar  tartan  dress  was  fluttering 
down.  Godwin  took  the  child  of  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraf t  by  the  hand  without  a  word.  In  silence 
on  her  side  she  suffered  herself  to  be  led  within 
the  study  of  her  father,  who  closed  the  door. 


_  O  £       Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe? 
I  O  O       The  nameless  worm  would  DOW  itself  disown: 


THE  DEEP  ONE 

TO  Godwin's  blank  amazement,  he  had 
not  himself  to  introduce  the  delicate 
theme.  He  had  resolved  to  have  a 
settlement  with  his  daughter.  He  did  not  know 
how  to  go  about  it.  Mary  broke  the  ice  herself. 

"Mrs.  Shelley  has  been  here  to  say  her  hus- 
band has  fallen  in  love  with  me." 

Having  thrown  this  little  bomb,  Mary  stopped 
short. 

Godwin's  mouth  had  framed  the  first  word  of 
a  sentence.  He  had  designed  it  as  a  delicate  ap- 
proach to  the  subject.  Mary's  tactics  disarmed 
him.  She  had  seized  the  initiative.  He  stared. 

"I  am  right,  am  I  not,  Pa  9" 

She  looked  at  him  innocently  out  of  her  dark 
grey  eyes.  They  were  unfathomable. 

If  felt,  yet  could  escape,  the  magic  tone  Q 

Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong,  1  O  J 


Shelley's 


"Yes — that  is  true." 

He  was  forced  to  speak  tersely.  The  speech 
he  had  rehearsed  was  useless.  He  had  expected 
Mary  to  be  tongue-tied.  He  was  that  himself  in- 
stead. 

"I  knew  Mr.  Shelley  would  say  he  loved  me. 
It  is  what  he  tells  all  women — when  he  is  ready." 

Mary  gazed  archly  at  her  father.  The  sugges- 
tion of  a  smile  played  about  the  thin  and  wide 
lips  she  had  inherited  from  him. 

"And  has  he  told  you?" 

Godwin  had  to  speak  in  a  hesitating  and  dry 
tone  of  voice.  The  words  came  with  difficulty. 
He  seemed  so  much  embarrassed  and  his  child 
seemed  so  much  at  ease !  But  love  was  the  theme. 
She  knew  all  about  the  subject  by  instinct.  To 
him  it  was  a  riddle. 

"Mr.  Shelley  can  not  open  his  lips  without 
telling  me  in  some  form  or  other  how  he  loves 
me." 

She  burst  into  a  ringing  laugh  as  she  finished  her 
sentence.  Godwin  marvelled.  How  easily  she 
bore  the  strain  of  a  subject  that  baffled  him  com- 

T  O  O       But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
1  O  O       Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 


Whose  master's  hand  is  cold, 
whose  silver  lyre  unstrung. 


pletely!  He  wondered  what  to  say  next.  She 
anticipated. 

"I  am  glad  Mrs.  Shelley  has  been  here  to  dis- 
cuss this  matter,  Pa.  I  knew  you  would  have  to 
be  told.  I  didn't  like  to  trouble  you.  There 
are  so  many  more  important  things  to  concern 
you." 

"It  concerns  me,  my  child,  that  Mr.  Shelley 
makes  love  to  you." 

"Mr.  Shelley  is  talking  only  his  poetry.  He  is 
a  poet  and  a  genius.  I  let  him  run  on.  It  saves 
Claire." 

"Ah !     I  understood  he  was  addressing  Claire." 

"She  takes  him  seriously,  poor  child." 

"Don't  you?" 

"I  told  you  just  now  he  is  a  poet." 

"Does  that  matter*?" 

"He  forgets  me  when  his  back  is  turned." 

Godwin  hesitated  to  say  the  next  word.  At 
last  he  opened  his  lips. 

"I  must  forbid  him  the  house." 

"By  all  means !"  assented  Mary.  "I  may  have 
listened  to  him  with  more  patience  than  I  should. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


I  knew  he  was  helping  you  with  your  financial 
affairs." 

Godwin  grew  livid. 

"He  can  not  make  love  to  you  because  he  is 
lending  me  money." 

Mary  rushed  upon  her  father.  She  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck. 

"It  is  natural  for  me  to  be  grateful  to  him  when 
he  is  saving  you  from  a  prison  cell." 

She  whispered  those  words  with  her  mouth  close 
to  his  ear. 

Prison!  The  thought  haunted  Godwin  night 
and  day.  He  knew  how  narrowly  he  had  escaped 
in  the  recent  past.  There  had  been  nights  when 
he  had  not  once  closed  an  eye  in  sleep  through 
dread  of  the  disgrace  which  threatened  to  close  his 
career  at  any  moment.  He  had  kept  the  worst 
from  his  family.  He  had  summoned  his  calm 
fortitude  to  his  aid.  There  had  been  no  conceal- 
ment from  Shelley.  That  generous  youth  had 
saddled  the  whole  financial  burden.  In  his  grati- 
tude to  Shelley,  Godwin  had  unbosomed  himself 
completely.  He  understood  from  what  Mary 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame ! 
J.  O  O       Live  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 


Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name !  TOT 

But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be!  V 


now  said  that  she  had  been  in  Shelley's  confidence. 
How  much  she  knew  and  how  much  of  that  knowl- 
edge had  been  gleaned  from  Shelley  he  could  not 
tell  and  he  dared  not  ask.  He  was  eager  to  ques- 
tion the  child  of  his  heart  but  a  certain  sense  of 
dignity  and  a  fatherly  pride  held  his  tongue. 
Mary  was  the  next  to  speak : 

"Mr.  Shelley  tells  me  that  when  he  is  crossed 
in  love  he  takes  laudanum.  He  said  that  when 
last  a  young  lady  refused  to  listen  to  his  love  for 
her  he  tried  to  poison  himself." 

Mary  spoke  with  so  much  amusement  in  her 
tone  and  in  the  look  on  her  face  that  Godwin 
could  but  sigh. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  losing  his  reason,"  was  the 
philosopher's  melancholy  comment. 

"He's  not,  Pa!  He  says  these  things  as  nat- 
urally as  I  take  a  cup  of  tea." 

"He  must  not  be  allowed  to  come  here.  He 
will  create  a  scandal." 

"Not  if  we  humour  him,  Pa.  I  am  afraid  he 
will  forget  to  aid  you  as  readily  as  he  forgets  me 
or  Claire." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


That  hint  was  a  trifle  too  much  for  Godwin's 
nerves.  His  daughter  had  shot  her  arrow  true. 
She  had  another  to  send  in  the  same  direction. 

"I'm  sure  Mr.  Shelley  will  keep  his  pledge  to 
you  about  that  money — if  we  remind  him." 

"You  don't  mean  that  he  will  forgo  his  word?" 

Mary  was  a  specimen  of  the  type  of  human 
female  to  whom  the  members  of  her  own  sex  ap- 
ply the  name  of  "cat."  She  could  make  cut- 
ting remarks  in  the  sweetest  manner.  They 
ruffled  the  susceptibilities  cruelly.  This  was  her 
special  accomplishment.  Her  jealousy  of  dispo- 
sition was  so  notorious  that  it  diverted  attention 
from  the  fury  of  her  temper.  Luckily  for  her- 
self, Mary  had  great  self-control.  She  seldom 
permitted  this  fury  of  temper  to  become  a  matter 
of  common  observation.  Godwin  feared  it.  He 
understood  how  determined  his  daughter  was,  how 
dangerous  it  must  be  to  cross  or  to  thwart  her. 
He  dealt  with  her  always  very  cautiously.  He 
had  not  been  prepared,  however,  for  the  sudden- 
ness and  completeness  with  which  she  turned  the 
tables  upon  him.  It  was  expedient  that  he  retire 

And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
L  \J  2*       To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow: 


Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee ;  T  O  ^ 

Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow,  s  J 


from  the  discussion  regarding  Shelley  with  what 
little  dignity  his  child's  references  to  his  pecuniary 
embarrassments  left  him.  He  had  been  relieved 
at  first  by  her  ready  assent  to  the  idea  of  forbid- 
ding Shelley  to  come  to  Skinner  Street,  but  now 
he  perceived  that  her  assent  was  but  a  pretence. 

"Can  I  see  my  father  marched  off  to  a  prison 
when  I  know  a  friend  stands  ready  to  aid  him?" 

Godwin  winced. 

"Perhaps  I  do  not  need  Shelley's  aid  as  much  as 
all  that." 

Mary  clasped  her  hands  in  an  attitude  of  sup- 
plication. 

"Dearest  Pa,"  she  cried,  "do  not  break  my 
heart.  Do  not  let  your  pride  stand  in  the  way 
of  accepting  the  aid  of  Mr.  Shelley." 

"My  creditors  can  wait." 

"They  will  not.  Mr.  Hookham  was  here  again 
the  other  day." 

"Hookham!"  cried  Godwin.  "My  best 
friend!" 

"He  says  the  people  who  have  your  notes  will 
press  him.  They  are  holding  off  only  because 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


they  see  how  eager  Mr.  Shelley  is  to  aid  you.  If 
Mr.  Shelley  ceases  his  visits,  there  will  be  a  proc- 
ess at  law." 

"That  is  the  subject  of  your  conversations  with 
Mr.  Shelley?" 

"He  talks  of  love,  to  be  sure.  You  will  tell 
him  to  stop  that." 

Mary  smiled  at  her  last  words. 

Knowledge  that  his  Mary  had  ceased  to  be  a 
child  flashed  upon  the  consciousness  of  Godwin 
with  the  suddenness  of  the  white  light  that  blinded 
Saul  of  Tarsus.  The  author  of  "Political  Jus- 
tice" realized  that  the  discussion  in  which  he  had 
involved  himself  was  too  profound  for  a  mere 
intellect  to  grasp.  He  was  opening  a  page  in 
the  great  book  of  woman.  He  found  its  lessons 
set  down  in  an  unknown  tongue.  Little  had  he 
dreamed  when  he  summoned  his  daughter  into 
his  awful  presence  that  he  would  be  taught,  not 
she.  Godwin  was  making  the  discovery  which  in 
time  comes  so  painfully  to  all  men,  the  discovery 
that  woman  is  the  supreme  mystery.  He  floun- 
dered. He  told  himself  that  he  was  standing 

And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble 
I  Q4  thou  shalt— as  now. 


Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 

Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream  below ; 


upon  a  quicksand.  He  was  sinking  deeper  and 
deeper.  In  the  next  breath  he  denied  the  truth 
to  himself.  He  stared  into  the  pretty  face  op- 
posite his.  He  was  baffled  afresh  by  what  he 
failed  to  read  there.  Mary  was  calm,  cool,  self- 
contained  and  perfectly  poised.  Godwin  was  em- 
barrassed, uneasy,  vaguely  conscious  that  to  this 
child  he  looked  a  fool. 

"Then,"  he  stammered,  "you're  not  in  love  with 
Mr.  Shelley?' 

"Love  Shelley?     I?" 

Mary  lifted  her  apron  with  one  hand  and  threw 
it  over  her  face.  Then  she  burst  into  a  peal  of 
laughter  so  ringing  that  her  father's  jaw  relaxed 
into  a  wan  smile. 

"When  first  he  told  me  of  his  love,  Pa,  what 
do  you  suppose  led  him  to  it?  He  began  to  wrig- 
gle all  over  the  floor." 

Mary  threw  herself  upon  the  carpet  and  began 
to  squirm  hither  and  thither  at  her  father's  feet. 
She  waved  her  arms  and  kicked  her  young  limbs 
about.  Then  she  stood  up  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  hair  tumbled. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"That  is  how  he  began  his  tale  of  love,"  said 
she. 

Godwin  steadied  himself  by  holding  to  his  desk. 
His  sense  of  humour  was  rudimentary. 

"You  bade  him  get  up  off  the  floor,  my 
child." 

"No,  Pa.  He  would  have  refused.  He  said 
he  had  elephantiasis." 

Godwin  gazed  at  Mary  in  fresh  amazement. 

"Elephantiasis!"  he  cried.  "I  never  heard  of 
that." 

"Neither  had  I,  Pa.  Mr.  Shelley  told  me  of 
his  love.  I  did  not  take  him  seriously.  He  be- 
gan wriggling.  He  says  this  elephantiasis  makes 
the  legs  swell  until  they  are  as  thick  as  trees." 

Godwin  listened  in  speechless  surprise. 

"He's  always  looking  at  his  own  skin,"  pursued 
Mary.  "On  this  particular  evening,  he  began  to 
feel  the  skin  of  my  arm.  He  said  it  looked  rough, 
as  if  I  had  the  elephantiasis.  He  was  tremend- 
ously frightened  for  he  said  it  was  catching." 

The  face  of  Godwin  had  taken  on  such  an  ex- 
pression of  panic  by  the  time  Mary  had  concluded 


196 


He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now.- 


Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow          T 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 


her  last  words,  that  she  felt  impelled  to  reassure 
him  with  another  laugh. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Pa,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Shelley 
is  not  mad.  I  cured  him  of  his  delusion." 

"Did  you  send  him  to  a  doctor*?" 

"I  told  him  the  disease  was  never  heard  of  out- 
side of  Egypt.  One  could  not  catch  it  unless  one 
lived  on  the  Nile." 

Godwin  smiled  wanly.  The  mind  of  the 
philosopher  reverted  to  what  he  had  once  written 
his  friend  Baxter  concerning  the  young  lady  in 
his  embrace.  Godwin  had  always  been  eager  that 
this  child  of  his  by  Mary  Wollstonecraft  be 
brought  up  like  a  philosopher,  even  like  a  cynic. 
Thus  he  put  it  in  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend. 
That  would  add  immeasurably  to  the  strength 
and  worth  of  her  character.  Mary  Godwin,  so 
far  as  her  father  could  see,  had  no  love  of  dissipa- 
tion. She  seemed  perfectly  satisfied  with  the 
mountains  and  the  woods  surrounding  her  when 
she  went  upon  her  long  visits  to  the  family  of 
Mr.  Baxter.  Much  of  her  girlhood  had  been 
passed  in  the  Baxter  circle.  Mr.  Baxter  imbibed 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


the  Godwin  philosophy  years  before.  He  had 
been  expelled  from  a  religious  body  to  which  he 
once  adhered  as  a  result  of  this  faith  in  what  God- 
win taught.  Baxter  had  been  urged  by  Godwin 
to  excite  Mary  to  industry.  She  had  occasionally 
great  perseverance,  but  she  needed  greatly  to  be 
"roused."  Godwin  now  asked  himself  if  Mary 
had  not  been  unduly  "roused"  by  the  mad  Shel- 
ley. 

"He  says  he  has  been  obliged  by  an  accession 
of  nervous  attacks,"  conceded  the  philosopher,  "to 
take  a  quantity  of  laudanum.  He  says  he  did  it 
very  reluctantly." 

"He  has  said  to  me,"  chimed  in  Mary,  "that 
he  hopes  to  be  compelled  to  have  recourse  to  lauda- 
num no  more." 

Godwin  saw  a  chance  now  to  let  fly  an  arrow. 

"He  spends  much  time  in  reading  your  mother's 
books  with  you,  I  hear." 

"Mr.  Shelley  is  a  great  enthusiast  regarding  my 
mother,"  said  Mary,  with  a  flush  in  her  cheek. 
"He  asked  to  see  my  own  copy  of  my  mother's 
vindication  of  the  rights  of  woman." 

A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Though  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same, 


Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  TOO 

sordid  hearth  of  shame.  X  X 


She  was  disconcerted.  Godwin  detected  the 
fact  beneath  her  assumption  of  composure. 

"Is  he  not  teaching  you  Greek?" 

"I  told  him  I  wanted  to  learn  it." 

Godwin  wished  to  follow  up  this  line  of  attack. 
He  had  noted  that  whenever  he  pressed  Mary  very 
far  on  the  subject  of  Shelley  she  took  refuge  in 
the  subject  of  the  pecuniary  embarrassments. 
That  annoyed  him.  Yet  what  was  he  to  do? 
Moreover,  he  feared  that  his  child  was  threaten- 
ing him.  She  could  keep  Shelley  from  raising 
the  imperative  three  thousand  pounds. 

"Certain  scandalous  reports  have  been  hi  cir- 
culation regarding  Mr.  Shelley  and  a — er — Miss 
Kitchener,"  observed  Godwin. 

Mary  flushed. 

"You  never  believed  them,  Pa?" 

"No.  I  merely  call  your  attention  to  the  dis- 
advantages to  Miss  Kitchener's  reputation  from 
her  association  with  our  young  friend." 

Mary  was  not  at  all  disposed  to  see  any  hint  in 
this  observation,  apparently,  for  she  abruptly 
turned  the  subject. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"Mr.  Shelley  tells  me  the  rent  of  this  house 
has  not  been  paid  for  some  years,"  she  observed. 
"Is  he  not  raising  the  money  for  us?" 

Godwin's  jaw  relaxed.  This  was  another  of 
his  nightmares. 

"I  have  been  here  rent  free  for  a  long  time," 
he  confessed,  turning  paler  than  ever  Mary  had 
seen  him  in  her  life.  "A  demand  has  been  made 
upon  me  unexpectedly  for  the  rent  of  several  years 
accumulated." 

"I  had  some  talk  with  Mr.  Shelley  regarding 
that,"  she  said,  pensively.  "I  think  it  very  noble 
of  him  to  secure  that  large  sum." 

"Ah!     He  said  he  would  secure  it?" 

Mary  nodded. 

"I  understand,  Pa,  that  a  promissory  note  of 
yours  for  three  hundred  pounds  is  in  the  hands  of 
a  stranger — a  person  from  whom  you  can  expect 
no  mercy." 

Godwin  was  pacing  the  floor,  which  groaned 
under  his  tread  as  if  in  sympathy  with  the  woes 
which  rent  his  soul. 

"It  seems,"  he  remarked  at  last,   "that  Mr. 


Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — 
2*  \J  O       He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life — 


"Tis  we,  who  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep  2.  O  I 

With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 

Shelley  confides  to  you  all  he  learns  about  me." 

Mary  stopped  her  father  in  his  walk  and  placed 
a  hand  upon  his  chin. 

"Pa,"  she  began,  kissing  him  on  the  brow  and 
fondling  his  chin  with  her  pretty  little  hand, 
"how  can  I  remain  in  ignorance  of  what  so  con- 
cerns you*?  It  robs  me  of  sleep.  You  tell  me 
nothing.  Shelley  is  told  all.  I  try  to  find  out 
from  him  what  you  refuse  to  tell  me." 

"You  could  not  understand  these  things,  my 
child." 

"I  understand  them  as  well  as  Shelley.  He 
has  agreed  to  help  you  through." 

"He  said  so — positively?" 

"I  asked  him." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  father  and  the 
daughter  exchanged  profound  glances. 

"The  mind  of  Mr.  Shelley  is  restless,"  said 
Mary.  "He  means  to  help  you.  He  will  do  all 
he  says.  But  he  forgets  things.  I  have  had  to 
remind  him  often  of  your  troubles  here." 

"I  believe  your — " 

Godwin  wished  to  use  the  word  "Mother."     He 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


hesitated  because  he  understood  Mary's  disgust 
at  the  application  of  the  name  to  the  second  Mrs. 
Godwin. 

"I  detest  Mrs.  Godwin !"  cried  Mary,  divining 
her  father's  mind.  "She  is  the  source  of  all  our 
embarrassments." 

"My  child,"  interrupted  the  philosopher 
mildly,  "you  are  singularly  bold,  somewhat  im- 
perious and  active  in  mind — -" 

"I  am  like  my  mother." 

"Your  desire  for  knowledge  is  great,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, like  one  saying  a  piece  he  had  got  by 
heart.  "Your  perseverance  in  everything  you  un- 
dertake is  almost  invincible." 

"I  mean  to  make  this  Mr.  Shelley  keep  his 
word  with  you,  Pa." 

Mary  thoroughly  appreciated  the  extent  to 
which  she  held  her  father  in  her  power.  She 
wanted  him  to  realize  the  source  of  that  power. 
She  had  no  intention  of  humiliating  him — more 
than  was  necessary.  She  had  resolved,  however, 
that  in  no  circumstances  should  Godwin  decide 
for  her  the  extent  to  which  she  associated  with 

And  in  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
2*  W  2*       Invulnerable  nothings. —  We  decay. 


Like  corpses  in  a  charnel;  fear  and  grief  ^  O  O 

Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day,  J 


Shelley.  She  was  a  woman  now.  That  fact  was 
no  less  apparent  to  herself  than  it  had  become  to 
Godwin.  She  shrank  from  any  open  confession 
of  the  state  of  her  mind  and  heart  to  the  cold 
and  philosophical  Godwin.  Nevertheless,  she 
would  make  her  father  feel  the  pressure  of  her 
own  will.  Godwin  on  his  side  did  not  wish  to 
come  to  grips  with  the  child  who  before  his  eyes 
had  transformed  herself  from  a  babe  into  a 
woman.  He  well  knew  the  indomitable  char- 
acter of  her  will,  the  firmness  with  which  she  fol- 
lowed a  course  of  action  upon  which  was  resolved. 
He  looked  at  her  out  of  his  narrow  eyes  and  won- 
dered what  she  had  planned.  It  vexed  him  to 
find  himself  wound  around  this  child's  finger.  He 
realized  all  at  once  how  helpless  he  was.  He 
suspected  that  the  smile  on  Mary's  face  was  one 
of  triumph. 


Elopement 


XI 
RECRIMINATION 

GODWIN  gave  his  daughter  a  kiss.  It 
resembled  nothing  so  much  as  the  cold 
peck  of  the  bill  of  a  bird.  It  was  a 
sign  that  the  interview  was  at  an  end.  Mary  left 
her  father's  presence,  a  thrill  of  triumph  exhilarat- 
ing her  pretty  little  frame.  She  turned  cold  at 
sight  of  her  step-sister  Claire  on  the  stairs. 

"Home  at  last!"  cried  the  deep  one.  "I  am 
so  glad!" 

"You're  not  glad!"  snapped  the  dark-eyed  girl. 
"Don't  try  your  arts  on  me,  miss." 

The  blonde  and  the  brunette  exchanged  a  look 
of  profound  antipathy.  There  was  little  lost  be- 
tween them  in  the  shape  of  love.  Just  now  their 
mutual  antagonism  was  at  a  white  heat. 

"Come  upstairs  with  me!"  commanded  Claire. 

Claire's  tiny  little  room  reflected  in  every  de- 

And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms 
2*  O  ^4.       within  our  living  clay. 


He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night;  2,  O  C 

Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain,  ^ 


tail  of  its  furniture  and  arrangement  the  roman- 
tic moods  in  which  she  revelled.  There  was  an 
immense  portrait  of  the  actor  Kemble  against  the 
wall  facing  any  one  who  entered.  Above  the 
picture,  Claire's  own  fingers  had  woven  a  garland 
of  artificial  flowers.  The  effigy  of  Mrs.  Siddons 
looked  down  from  the  mantelpiece.  There  were 
handbills  from  the  playhouses,  all  neatly  framed 
and  stuck  about  conspicuously.  In  a  corner  were 
hung  upon  a  series  of  pegs  the  several  costumes 
of  parts  in  which  this  young  lady  was  ambitious 
to  appear  before  the  public.  Upon  the  floor  lay 
boots  and  buskins  of  many  colours.  Gorgeous 
silk  stockings  had  been  suspended  upon  a  line  of 
rope  stretched  from  the  window  to  the  edge  of 
Claire's  bed.  Copies  of  acting  editions  of  plays 
were  everywhere.  Claire  had  infinite  faith  in  her 
own  gifts.  These  she  exploited  in  recitations 
within  the  family  circle.  The  kitchen  had  rung 
more  than  once  with  her  shrieks  as  Ophelia.  She 
had  stalked  through  the  Juvenile  Library  as  Lady 
Macbeth.  She  was  still,  however,  without  any 
public  engagement. 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Mary's  impulse  to  disobey  the  command  she 
had  just  received  was  checked  by  the  expression 
on  Claire's  dark  brow.  There  was  trouble  brew- 
ing between  this  pair  of  temperamental  young 
ladies,  as  Mrs.  Godwin  would  have  divined  had 
she  beheld  them  just  then.  That  obese  woman 
was  for  the  moment  immersed  in  the  embarrassed 
accounts  of  her  Juvenile  Library.  She  might 
else  have  taken  a  deep  personal  interest  in  this 
meeting  of  the  pair.  In  silence  Mary  followed 
Claire. 

They  wended  their  way  to  the  snug  little  room 
on  the  second  floor.  It  served  the  radiant  Miss 
Clairmont  as  a  sleeping  apartment  only  when  she 
spent  her  nights  at  home. 

"I've  got  something,"  began  Claire.  She  ex- 
hibited a  morsel  of  paper.  "It's  addressed  to 
you." 

She  waved  the  missive  in  Mary's  face,  anticipat- 
ing an  effort  of  that  young  lady  to  seize  it  by 
withdrawing  it  suddenly  behind  her  back. 

"No,  no,"  cried  Claire.  "It's  from  that  mad 
Shelley." 

X       And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
2  O  O       Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 


From   the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow   stain        2,  O  7 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn  / 

"It's  mine !"  cried  Mary.  She  made  a  fresh  ef- 
fort to  take  possession  of  the  letter. 

"You  have  been  bribing  the  porter  downstairs," 
went  on  Claire.  "What  if  I  showed  this  to 
Pa?" 

The  look  of  fury  that  shot  from  the  eyes  of 
Mary  into  the  eyes  of  Claire  while  they  tried 
conclusions  in  the  light  of  the  afternoon  sun 
streaming  through  the  window  did  not  lead  either 
into  an  excess  of  speech.  These  two  young  and 
pretty  ladies  understood  one  another  perfectly. 
Mary  knew  so  much  about  Claire!  Claire  felt 
quite  frightened  at  the  thought  of  that.  Claire  to 
be  sure  comprehended  many  of  Mary's  manoeuvres 
too  well.  The  result  had  been  an  armed  truce 
between  them.  Together,  they  swayed  the  for- 
tunes of  Godwin's  household  more  completely 
than  he  ever  suspected.  When  at  odds,  Mary  and 
Claire  had  Skinner  Street  in  an  uproar.  When 
they  were  friends  Mary  called  her  step-sister 
"Claire."  If  a  quarrel  arose  between  them,  Mary 
used  the  name  of  "Jane"  instead. 

Claire  hated  to  be  called  Jane.     It  was  not 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


appropriate  to  that  career  upcn  the  stage  to  which 
she  looked  forward. 

The  threat  to  give  Shelley's  letter  to  Godwin 
reduced  Mary  to  terms  on  the  spot. 

"You  wouldn't  do  that,  Claire,"  she  said  with 
an  affectation  of  composure. 

"You  mean  that  if  I  tell  of  your  goings  on, 
you'll  tell  about  my  staying  out  late,"  remarked 
Claire,  with  perfect  coolness.  "Very  good !  But 
you  don't  get  this  letter  in  a  hurry." 

"I'll  have  an  explanation  from  Dan,"  said 
Mary.  "I  don't  see  why  he  gave  you  a  letter 
meant  for  me." 

"When  you  paid  him  to  let  you  have  it  without 
telling  any  one,"  laughed  Claire.  "I  want  that 
gold  brooch  you've  promised  me  this  last  half 
year." 

"You  shall  have  it,"  said  Mary.  "Give  me 
the  letter." 

Claire  searched  the  countenance  of  her  step- 
sister with  a  suspicious  gaze.  Satisfied  with  what 
she  saw  there,  she  placed  the  missive  in  Mary's 
hand.  That  young  lady  put  the  communication 

O       A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey  in  vain ; 
<*•»  >J  O       Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 


With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  'i  O  O 

unlamcnted  urn.  ^/ 


into  the  bosom  of  her  dress  without  reading  it. 

"An  assignation  with  Mr.  Shelley,"  observed 
Claire.  "Upon  my  word,  you  carry  things  here 
with  a  high  hand." 

Mary  had  heard  this  form  of  attack  before  but 
she  had  her  own  weapon. 

Claire  had  been  absenting  herself  by  stealth 
from  her  maiden  bed  of  late  with  such  frequency 
that  she  dreaded  discovery.  This  was  the  sword 
of  Damocles  suspended  by  the  smiling  Mary  over 
the  head  of  her  stepsister.  Claire  had  fallen  in 
with  a  theatrical  manager  who,  from  her  own 
account,  had  boundless  influence  over  Lord  Byron. 
To  meet  this  star  of  the  literary  firmament  was 
now  the  aim  of  Claire's  whole  existence.  She 
talked  of  him  very  much  as  a  follower  of  Peter 
the  Hermit  might  have  talked  of  the  holy  sepul- 
chre. Claire  had  not  yet  gratified  her  ambition 
to  meet  the  author  of  "Childe  Harold"  face  to 
face.  She  had  followed  his  personal  chagrins  in 
the  prints,  so  far  as  the  papers  concerned  them- 
selves with  the  vicissitudes  of  the  noble  lord.  She 
devoured  his  poetry.  Mary  had  assisted  her  ally 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


in  the  household  by  framing  epistles  to  the  au- 
thorities at  Drury  Lane,  for  Claire  was  not  al- 
ways coherent  in  her  letters,  although  she  could 
tell  a  story  on  paper  in  a  very  romantic  manner. 
The  fear  of  discovery  by  her  mother  was  the  one 
obstacle  to  her  ambition  which  this  girl  acknowl- 
edged. 

"It's  no  assignation  he  proposes,"  cried 
Mary. 

"You'll  say  next  you  didn't  interfere  between 
Mr.  Shelley  and  Fanny!"  Claire  exclaimed. 
"Poor  Fanny!  She  loves  the  mad  Shelley  and 
he  loved  her." 

"Why  doesn't  he  take  her?  She  can  be  had 
for  the  asking." 

"You  didn't  give  her  a  chance,"  Claire  fairly 
screamed.  "The  moment  you  got  back  from  Scot- 
land and  saw  how  things  were  going  you  packed 
her  off  to  Wales." 

Mary  looked  at  the  door  with  the  air  of  a  per- 
son who  wishes  to  lose  no  time.  Claire  had  some- 
thing else  on  her  mind. 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he; 
2r   I  O       Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn, 


Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee  2,  I    I 

The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone; 

"You  think  you  can  force  Pa  to  tolerate  your 
goings  on,"  she  said,  "because  he's  so  much  in 
need  of  Mr.  Shelley's  money — " 

"You  may  need  it  yourself,"  said  Mary 
quietly,  "if  you  are  to  keep  a  roof  over  your  head." 

Claire  bent  a  keen  look  of  her  black  eyes  upon 
the  pair  of  grey  ones  that  met  her  own. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  she  said.  "You  make 
matters  worse  in  order  to  have  an  excuse." 

"The  rent  of  this  place  has  been  unpaid  for 
three  years,"  was  all  Mary  found  it  necessary  to 
say. 

Intellectually,  Mary  was  infinitely  the  superior 
of  Claire.  The  latter  invariably  lost  in  any  con- 
test of  wits  with  the  daughter  of  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft.  Claire  took  refuge  in  ridicule  of 
everything  to  which  she  applied  the  term  of 
"mind."  Mary  read  the  philosophers,  the  poets 
and  even  the  scientists.  These  worthies  bored 
Claire  to  death.  Mary  was  grave  in  all  her  de- 
portment. Claire  was  for  ever  singing  like  a 
bird  or  bounding  in  and  out  like  a  gazelle.  Claire 
had  not  the  self-control  of  the  other.  She  could 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


not  manage  her  temper.  She  had  no  system. 
She  was  disorderly  in  her  habits.  But  she  lacked 
the  secretiveness  of  Mary.  Mary  lacked  the  gen- 
erosity of  Claire.  Mary  was  jealous.  Mary  was 
revengeful.  Claire  forgave  her  worst  enemy 
within  an  hour  after  vowing  awful  revenge. 
Mary  professed  the  loftiest  sentiments  while  de- 
termining to  make  her  foe  rue  the  day.  Mary 
planned  and  Claire  executed.  When  Claire 
wanted  to  outwit  her  mother's  watchful  eye  she 
always  went  to  Mary  for  advice.  Mary,  to  use 
the  favourite  phrase  of  Mrs.  Godwin,  was  the 
deep  one.  Claire,  truth  to  tell,  was  somewhat 
shallow.  She  now  lost  all  self-command. 

"You  can  have  him  for  all  I  care!"  hissed 
Claire,  the  glow  in  her  dusky  cheek  becoming 
crimson.  "That  is,"  she  added,  with  a  scornful 
laugh,  "if  you  can  get  him." 

Mary  relaxed  into  her  inscrutable  smile. 

"Perhaps  I  have  him  already,"  she  observed 
with  unruffled  composure." 

"Don't  be  too  sure." 

"Perhaps  I  don't  want  him." 

Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan! 
2,  I    2,       Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air 


Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown        /j    y  *y 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare  J 

Claire  broke  into  a  ringing  laugh.  She  lifted 
her  dark  eyes  to  the  stained  ceiling. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  want  him!"  she  mocked, 
imitating  Mary's  quietness  of  tone  with  a  his- 
trionic fidelity  which  revealed  that  she  had  not 
mistaken  her  vocation  in  going  to  Drury  Lane. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  want  him!  And  perhaps 
you  do!" 

She  raised  her  voice  at  the  last  words  in  a 
peculiarly  irritating  manner.  But  Mary  was  not 
to  be  aggravated  out  of  her  self-control. 

"Mr.  Shelley  seems  fond  of  my  conversa- 
tion." 

"Mr.  Shelley  seemed  fond  of  my  conversation," 
snapped  Claire.  "But  you  took  him  from  me." 

"I  didn't  interfere  between  him  and  you." 

Claire  opened  her  bright  black  eyes.  She  had 
forgotten  an  important  factor  in  the  bargain  she 
was  driving,  however.  She  suddenly  reverted  to 
it. 

"Will  you  let  me  have  the  pink  satin  slippers 
Isobel  Baxter  gave  you?" 

"Yes." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Mary's  consent  to  the  bargain  was  so  ready 
that  Claire  went  further. 

"I  want  that  silk  dress  with  the  furbelows." 

"Never!" 

Mary  spoke  vehemently.  She  looked  very  well 
in  that  dress. 

"I  want  it,"  said  Claire. 

Mary's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Really,  Claire,  you  might  have  some  considera- 
tion for  my  feelings.  I  wanted  to  wear  it — "  she 
hesitated. 

"You  wanted  to  wear  it  at  your  mother's 
grave,"  sneered  Claire.  "I  understand." 

"You  can  have  five  pounds,"  said  Mary. 

"Where  will  you  get  it?' 

Mary  pulled  a  bank  note  from  the  bosom  of 
her  tartan  dress. 

"Shelley  gave  you  that,"  remarked  Claire,  after 
a  critical  examination  of  the  paper.  "I  under- 
stand perfectly.  Good !  I  will  take  the  money. 
Keep  the  dress." 

Godwin's  detachment  from  his  family  circle 

Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile 
2  I  _1  on  its  despair! 


He  is  made  one  with  Nature:  there  is  heard  /j    j    p» 

His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan  0 

made  it  easy  for  Claire  to  live  pretty  much  the 
life  she  pleased.  The  histrionic  ambitions  of  her 
daughter  were  not  entirely  approved  by  the  sec- 
ond Mrs.  Godwin.  She  had  striven  to  foil  them. 
In  every  instance  her  efforts  had  been  thwarted  by 
Mary.  The  child  of  Godwin  by  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft  was  animated  less  by  a  desire  to  pro- 
mote her  step-sister's  ambitions  than  by  hatred  of 
the  lady  who  had  taken  her  dead  mother's  place. 
The  clandestine  visits  of  Claire  to  Drury  Lane  by 
night  could  be  effected  only  with  the  co-operation 
of  Mary.  Time  and  again  had  the  stage-struck 
miss  taken  flight  from  her  little  bed  without  the 
knowledge  of  her  own  mother.  Mrs.  Godwin 
suspected  the  tacit  conspiracy  of  this  pair  against 
her  own  maternal  authority.  She  was  perpetually 
on  the  watch  to  entrap  the  conspirators.  She  was 
often  thwarted  by  the  cleverness  of  Mary.  Claire 
had  on  one  occasion  slid  down  a  rope  improvised 
out  of  Mary's  skirts  only  to  drop  into  the  fat 
arms  of  her  bespectacled  mother  and  taken  back 
summarily  to  bed. 

Mary,  having  bought  Claire  with  a  five  pound 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


note,  assumed  an  impenetrable  aspect  of  counten- 
ance. 

"The  wife  of  a  man  like  Shelley,"  she  remarked, 
"should  understand  poetry  and  philosophy.  His 
present  wife — " 

"Pshaw!"  cried  Claire,  with  a  laugh  of  vexa- 
tion. "Don't  try  that  glibness  with  me.  I 
know  what  you  mean.  I  see  through  your 
tricks." 

Mary's  face  remained  impassive. 

"You  are  bent  upon  enraging  me,  Claire." 

"You  are  bent  upon  infuriating  me !"  shrieked 
Claire.  "The  idea  of  your  making  such  pretences 
with  me.  I  know  you  too  well.  You  are  bent 
upon  having  Shelley." 

"I  can  not  prevent  his  seeking  me  out." 

"Seeking  you  out!  What  does  your  pretence 
mean  regarding  your  mother's  grave.  Does  Shel- 
ley take  you  there*?" 

Mary  was  for  the  first  time  disposed  to  lose  her 
temper. 

"My  mother's  grave  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you." 

^   T  /^       Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ; 
2t  L  \J       He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 


In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone,  s\    j  rj 

Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move  / 


"You  took  Shelley  there  the  other  day.  I  know 
what  for.  You  never  thought  of  your  mother's 
grave  last  year  when  poor  Fanny  spent  all  her 
time  in  keeping  it  green.  When  you  found  that 
Shelley  met  Fanny  there  you  showed  a  sudden  in- 
terest in  the  dead." 

The  dusky  girl  had  advanced  a  step  nearer  to 
hiss  the  words.  Mary  saw  that  she  had  best  not 
pursue  the  conversation  along  these  lines.  She 
was  a  mistress  of  the  art  of  cajolery. 

"I  am  sure  you  need  not  talk  so  cruelly,"  Mary 
began,  taking  out  a  handkerchief.  "If  I  do  care 
for  Mr.  Shelley's  society,  does  he  not  care  for 
mine'?" 

"Don't  be  mad,"  objected  Claire.  "What  can 
you  gain  from  Shelley?  He  has  a  wife." 

"She  does  not  love  him." 

"Will  it  do  you  any  good  to  compromise  your- 
self with  him?  What  if  he  desert  you  and  re- 
turn to  her?" 

"He  will  never  do  that." 

"Then  he  has  told  you  so?" 

Mary  saw  that  she  had  revealed  her  heart 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


too  much.  There  was  no  chance  now  for  retreat. 
She  pushed  boldly  ahead. 

"I  go  with  my  mother,"  she  said  proudly. 
"My  mother's  whole  life  was  a  protest  against  the 
conventions." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Mary.  If  he  lives  with  you  for 
a  time,  don't  you  see  that  his  people  will  in  the 
end  make  him  give  you  up?  They  will  recognize 
his  child  by  Harriet.  What  would  become  of 
yours?" 

This  frankness  of  speech  was  too  much  for 
Mary.  She  stood  facing  Claire  in  silence. 

"I  am  sure  Shelley  would  never  desert  the 
woman  to  whom  he  was  pledged." 

"He  pledges  himself  too  lightly.  You  have 
heard  of  his  loves.  First  it  is  Miss  Kitchener. 
Then  it  is  Mrs.  Turner.  Then  it  is  the  mysteri- 
ous lady  he  meets  by  chance." 

"Then  it  is  you,"  added  Mary. 

"Then  it  is  Fanny,"  corrected  Claire. 

Mary,  having  become  possessed  of  Shelley's  let- 
ter, was  too  eager  to  master  its  contents  to  feel 
interested  in  Claire's  state  of  mind.  She  darted 

Q       Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own ; 
2  I  O       Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love, 


Sustains  it  from  beneath, 
and  kindles  it  above. 


from  the  room  while  her  stepsister  was  preparing 
for  another  outburst  and  fled  up  to  the  attic. 
There  she  devoured  the  words  of  the  poet.  His 
letter  was  an  entreaty  to  meet  him  that  day  week 
at  St.  Pancras  churchyard  where  her  mother  was 
buried. 


Elopement 


XII 
A  PARD-LIKE  SPIRIT 

AS  Mary  Godwin  left  the  door  of  the 
Juvenile  Library  and  wended  her  way 
along  Skinner  Street  to  keep  her  tryst 
with  Shelley  at  the  grave  of  her  mother,  she  be- 
thought herself  of  the  circumstance  that  the  poet 
dwelt  hard  by.  He  had  taken  a  room  in  a  little 
house  on  Hatton  Garden.  His  wife  was  now  at 
Bath  with  her  father.  The  object  of  this  tem- 
porary change  of  the  poet's  place  of  abode  was, 
as  Shelley  assured  his  guide,  philosopher  and 
friend — Mary's  father — that  he  might  be  near 
Godwin.  The  financial  affairs  of  that  author  of 
"Political  Justice"  required,  it  would  seem,  con- 
stant association  with  the  poet.  Shelley  had  but 
to  dress  himself  in  the  morning,  to  rush,  with  a 
raisin  in  his  mouth,  across  the  lanes  and  he  could 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
2»  2  O       Which  once  he  made  more  lovely:  he  doth  bear 


His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's 
plastic  stress 


find  himself  at  the  portal  of  the  philosopher. 
Many  a  time  in  the  course  of  a  week  would  the 
poet  dash  wildly  and  without  a  hat  into  the  Juven- 
ile Library  and  on  through  the  shop  to  the  study 
upon  the  floor  above. 

It  occurred  to  Mary  upon  this  bright  July  after- 
noon, that  she  might  find  her  favourite  poet  in  the 
vicinity  of  his  new  Hatton  Garden  abode.  She 
did  not  proceed,  therefore,  straight  to  the  tomb. 
That  isolated  shrine  was  connected  with  the 
churchyard  of  St.  Pancras.  In  this  early  period 
of  the  nineteenth  century  the  little  church  of  St. 
Pancras  nestled  by  itself  among  clumps  of  trees 
in  a  wilderness  of  meadows  and  neglected  fields. 
Ponds  formed  from  the  successive  rains  were 
monopolized  by  ducks.  The  neighbourhood  was 
quite  unfamiliar  to  Mary. 

Her  eagerness  to  spend  some  portion  of  her 
abundant  leisure  at  her  mother's  grave  was  quite 
a  new  propensity.  Death  and  the  grave  were  not 
the  ideas  in  which  she  revelled.  Her  discovery 
that  as  the  daughter  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  she 
derived  importance  and  that  as  a  daughter  of  God- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


win  she  might  be  additionally  the  child  of  genius 
had  come  to  Mary  as  a  delightful  surprise.  She 
had  been  impressed  by  the  sentimental  value  her 
stepsister  Fanny  acquired  in  the  poet's  eye  from 
her  frequent  pilgrimages  to  the  lonely  and  ne- 
glected grave  in  which  Mary  Wollstonecraft  was 
now  taking  her  last  sleep. 

Mary  Godwin,  finding  grief  and  the  romanti- 
cism of  the  tomb  so  fashionable,  had  fallen  in  with 
the  Shelley  cult.  No  sooner  was  Fanny  dis- 
patched to  Wales  for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  a 
dangerous  rival,  than  Mary,  book  in  hand,  would 
wend  her  way  more  or  less  ostentatiously  to  the 
grave  of  her  mother. 

Shelley  had  soon  ascertained  the  goal  of  her  pil- 
grimages. One  sunny  afternoon  he  had  preceded 
her  thither.  How  innocent  was  her  surprise! 
Mary  found  occasion  to  shed  a  tear  in  the  gloomy 
spot.  She  called  it — in  Shelley's  presence — the 
"hallowed"  spot.  Shelley  thereupon  likewise 
shed  his  tear.  The  grave  was  to  them  both  by 
this  time  the  most  sacred  of  all  shrines.  They 
repaired  to  it  to  forget  in  the  presence  of  the  im- 

Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world, 
2*  2t  2*  compelling  there 


All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear;  <^  «^  f\ 

Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight  J 


mortal  dead  the  corruption  of  a  materialized 
world. 

Mary  looked  eagerly  about  her  as  she  came 
within  the  vicinity  of  Hatton  Garden.  The  resi- 
dence of  the  poet  was  a  worn  old  mansion.  It  had 
stood  neglected  for  many  years  in  a  great  field. 
The  few  trees  near  the  door  overtopped  a  gabled 
roof.  There  was  a  round  window  under  the 
eaves.  Here,  as  Mary  had  been  told,  the  poet 
often  stationed  himself  to  muse  upon  the  Platonic 
philosophy.  He  was  not  at  his  accustomed  place 
on  the  present  occasion.  Mary  stifled  a  sigh. 
She  walked  daintily  in  the  low  slippers  which 
fashion  permitted  her  sex  to  wear  on  pedestrian 
occasions.  Her  white  stockings  peeped  shyly 
forth  as  she  moved  her  little  feet. 

It  was  no  very  long  walk  to  the  churchyard. 
There  happened  to  be  a  great  flock  of  geese  in 
one  of  the  lanes.  The  fowls  approached  her  with 
a  tendency  to  crane  their  long  necks  and  cackle 
and  hiss.  Mary  lifted  her  dark  skirt  and  trod 
mincingly  through  the  mud.  She  had  trouble  in 
repelling  the  attentions  of  the  flock.  She  climbed 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


delicately  a  fence  of  hickory  limbs  which  bounded 
the  southern  extremity  of  the  churchyard.  She 
vaulted  upon  a  marble  slab  sacred  to  the  memory 
of  one  in  whom  she  was  not  interested.  Through 
the  tangled  mass  of  shrubbery  and  weeds  which 
bordered  the  lanes  Mary  tripped.  She  had  to 
look  carefully  about  her  lest  she  miss  the  way  to 
the  grave  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft. 

This  was  the  plainest  of  mounds.  It  had  been 
fixed  by  chance  beneath  the  limbs  of  a  spreading 
ewe.  The  slab  was  in  a  state  of  complete  neglect. 
The  long  stone  bore  simply  the  name  of  the  dead 
heroine  of  feminism  and  the  date  of  her  birth  and 
of  her  passing.  There  had  been  some  vague  out- 
lines of  an  inscription,  but  the  years  which  had 
gone  since  her  death  had  sufficed  to  obliterate  the 
words.  Mary  sniffed  the  summer  air  with  a  sense 
of  pleasure.  The  trees  growing  more  or  less  wild, 
the  twittering  of  the  birds,  the  shade  cast  by  the 
foliage  everywhere  afforded  the  most  complete 
seclusion.  Through  the  trees  she  caught  glimpses 
now  and  then  of  the  roofs  of  London  or  of  a  bit 
of  sky.  The  churchyard  might  well  have  been  in 

To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear; 
2r  2  ^       And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 


From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 
Heaven's  light. 


the  forest  of  Nottingham  so  far  as  the  presence  of 
fellow  creatures  was  concerned. 

Mary  did  not  like  the  direct  contact  with  na- 
ture to  which  her  environment  exposed  her. 
There  were  too  many  great  spiders,  too  many 
strange  insects  about  to  please  her  fancy.  She 
wondered  that  Shelley  had  thought  it  advisable 
to  be  late.  Her  pretty  lips  were  soon  pouting 
with  displeasure.  She  smiled  very  suddenly  when 
she  saw  the  poet  running  towards  her.  He  had 
a  loaf  of  bread  under  his  arm,  but  he  threw  it 
away  when  he  caught  sight  of  her.  Leaping  over 
the  hickory  barrier,  he  was  at  her  side  in  an  in- 
stant. 

"Never!"  cried  Shelley,  throwing  his  head  back 
like  a  man  who  calls  Heaven  to  witness  what  he 
says,  "never  can  I  express  the  abundance  of  pleas- 
ure which  your  three  letters  have  given  me." 

"I,"  replied  Mary,  "wear  yours  next  my  heart." 

This  was  a  lie  or  rather  it  was  an  untrue  state- 
ment, for  Mary  had  the  capacity  of  believing 
whatever  she  felt  ought  to  be  true. 

"Surely,"  proceeded  the  poet  whose  voice  was 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


now  low  and  musical,  "you  must  have  known  by 
intuition  all  my  thoughts  to  write  me  as  you  have 
done." 

"How  good  of  you,  who  are  so  occupied  with 
philosophy,"  she  murmured,  "to  keep  your  word. 
Shelley  is  to  me  incarnate  virtue." 

"Virtue,"  rejoined  Shelley,  "consists  in  the  mo- 
tive. Why  am  I  obliged  to  keep  my  word?.  Is 
it  because  I  desire  Heaven  and  hate  Hell?  Ob- 
ligation and  virtue  would  in  that  case  be  words  of 
no  value  as  the  criterion  of  excellence." 

"But  parents  and  children — "  began  Mary. 

"Do  you  agree  to  my  definition  of  virtue?" 

The  poet's  wide  eyes  were  fastened  upon  hers. 
Mary,  who  had  never  heard  the  definition  referred 
to,  nodded  in  a  kind  of  trance. 

"Divest  every  event  of  its  improper  tendency," 
proceeded  Shelley,  "and  evil  becomes  annihilate." 

Mary  could  not  see  the  relevance  of  this.  She 
feared  to  show  her  lack  of  comprehension  lest  the 
poet  despise  her  intellectual  powers. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  sighed,  "that  Pa  is  bent  on 
parting  us." 

^       The  splendous  of  the  firmament  of  time 
2  2r  O       May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not; 


Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 


Shelley  started  like  a  man  who  has  received  a 
blow.  Then  he  raised  an  arm  aloft.  His  next 
words  were  spoken  in  his  shrillest  tones. 

"Never,  with  my  consent,  shall  that  intercourse 
cease  which  has  been  the  day-dawn  of  my  exist- 
ence, the  sun  which  has  shed  the  warmth  on  the 
cold,  drear  length  of  the  anticipated  prospect  of 
life." 

He  took  a  large  red  apple  from  the  open  bosom 
of  his  shirt  and  began  to  crunch  it  with  avidity. 
Checking  himself  suddenly,  he  concentrated  his 
gaze  upon  Mary.  At  last  he  offered  her  a  bite. 

"Prejudice,"  he  resumed,  "might  demand  this 
sacrifice,  but  she  is  an  idol  to  which  we  bow  not. 
The  world  might  demand  it.  Its  opinion  might 
require  so  much.  But  the  cloud  which  fleets  over 
yonder  hills  were  as  important  to  our  happiness." 

Mary  had  taken  a  bite  of  the  apple  while  he 
was  saying  this.  She  chewed  it  thoughtfully  as 
he  went  on  with  his  train  of  ideas : 

"When  time  has  enrolled  us  in  the  list  of  the 
departed,  surely  this  one  friendship  will  survive  to 
bear  our  identity  in  Heaven." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


"You  are  melancholy,"  she  observed  with  a 
sigh. 

"I  cannot  be  gay.     Gaiety  is  not  in  my  nature." 

He,  too,  sighed.  The  wind  was  blowing  his 
coat  in  a  sheet  about  his  form.  He  drew  it  over 
his  exposed  chest  to  say  what  was  on  his  mind. 

"Yet,  I  will  be  happy.  And  I  claim  it  as  a 
sacred  right  that  you  share  my  happiness." 

To  Mary's  dismay  the  poet  drew  an  immense 
duelling  pistol  from  one  of  his  capacious  pockets. 

"Do  take  care !"  she  implored,  as  he  saw  to  its 
priming. 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear,  for  he  cried  these 
words : 

"Oh !  lovely  sympathy,  thou  are  life's  sweetest, 
only  solace,  and  is  not  my  Mary  the  shrine  of 
sympathy?" 

"What,"  she  asked,  "if  you  weary  of  that  sym- 
pathy?" 

Shelley  drew  a  white  card  from  his  pocket. 

"Suppose  your  frame  were  wasted  by  sickness, 
your  brow  covered  with  wrinkles'?"  cried  the  poet, 
looking  at  a  tree  behind  the  grave.  "Suppose  age 

O       The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
2*  <**  O       Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 


And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what  *)  *)  C\ 

Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there  y 

had  bowed  your  form  till  it  reached  the  ground, 
would  you  not  be  as  lovely  as  now?" 

Mary  was  at  a  loss  for  a  reply  to  this.  The 
poet's  demeanour  made  one  superfluous.  He  had 
approached  the  tree  and  was  examining  it  critic- 
ally. Mary  saw  him  lick  the  bark  with  his  tongue 
in  accordance  with  one  of  his  inveterate  habits. 
Satisfied  with  the  taste,  apparently,  he  proceeded 
next  to  affix  the  card  to  the  tree  with  the  aid  of 
a  broken  twig.  For  some  half  a  minute  he  eyed 
the  card  intently.  Mary  interrupted  his  reverie: 

"The  question  is — " 

"The  question  is,"  vociferated  Shelley,  talking 
with  such  speed  that  Mary  could  scarcely  follow 
the  torrent  of  words,  "what  do  I  love?  Do  I  love 
the  person,  the  embodied  identity?  No.  What 
I  love  is  superior,  what  is  excellent  or  what  I  con- 
ceive to  be  so." 

He  had  to  pause  from  sheer  agitation.  Mary 
would  have  rushed  to  his  side,  so  near  falling  did 
he  appear.  But  the  poet  had  recovered  himself 
sufficiently  to  regain  his  powers  of  speech. 

"For  love  is  Heaven  and  Heaven  is  love,"  he 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


ran  on.  "You  think  so,  too,  and  you  disbelieve 
not  in  the  existence  of  an  eternal,  omnipresent 
spirit." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with  a  look  of 
such  intensity  that  his  own  eyes  were  caught  again. 

"Am  I  not  mad?"  he  asked  with  a  smile. 
"Alas !  I  am,  but  I  pour  out  my  ravings  into  the 
ear  of  a  friend  who  will  pardon  them." 

He  raised  the  duelling  pistol,  took  careful  aim 
at  the  card  affixed  to  the  tree  and  pulled  the  rusty 
trigger.  Mary  held  her  ears.  The  explosion  was 
so  loud  that  a  man  in  the  distance  passing  on 
horseback  looked  across  the  wide  meadow  of  the 
heath.  Then  he  gave  spurs  to  his  horse  and  gal- 
loped off. 

"Missed,  by  Heavens!" 

Mary  looked  at  the  tree.  The  card  was  un- 
marked. The  poet  was  plainly  put  out.  He 
looked  at  the  smoking  weapon  in  his  hand,  then 
at  the  tree. 

"I  have  now  in  contemplation,"  said  the  poet, 
who  seemed  to  be  talking  to  the  tree,  so  rapt  was 
his  contemplation  of  it,  "a  poem.  I  intend  it  to 

And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark 
2*  <  O       and  stormy  air. 


The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown  "2.  "2   T 

Rose  from  the  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought,  J 


be  by  anticipation  a  picture  of  the  manners,  sim- 
plicity and  delights  of  a  perfect  state  of  society, 
though  still  earthly.  Will  you  assist  me?" 

Mary's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  Shelley's 
to  the  mark  he  had  missed. 

"Could  I  but  assist  you !" 

It  was  spoken  like  the  devout  aspiration  of  a 
St.  Cecilia. 

"I  shall  draw  a  picture  of  Heaven,"  Shelley 
rejoined.  "I  can  do  neither  without  some  hints 
from  you." 

The  pistol  had  been  cocked  again  by  this  time 
and  Shelley  was  taking  aim.  Again  the  shot  rang 
out.  Again  Mary  put  her  hands  to  her  head. 

"Missed !"  cried  Shelley  in  vexation,  adding  as 
if  by  after-thought :  "by  Heaven !" 

"Your  hand,"  she  said,  "is  unsteady  today." 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"I  consider  you,"  cried  the  poet,  his  eye  rolling 
in  fine  frenzy  to  the  sky,  "I  consider  you  one  of 
those  beings  who  carry  happiness,  reform,  liberty 
wherever  they  go.  To  me  you  are  as  my  better 
genius,  the  judge  of  my  reasonings,  the  guide  of 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


my  actions,    the   influencer  of  my   usefulness." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  She  made  a  deprecatory 
gesture. 

"Greater  responsibility,"  he  resumed,  running 
his  free  hand  through  the  masses  of  his  long  hair, 
"is  the  consequence  of  higher  powers.  I  am,  as 
you  must  be,  a  despiser  of  mock  modesty,  accus- 
tomed to  conceal  more  defects  than  excellences. 
I  know  I  am  superior  to  the  mob  of  mankind, 
but  I  am  inferior  to  you  in  everything  but  the 
equality  of  friendship." 

He  had  reloaded.  For  a  minute  more  he  eyed 
the  card  upon  the  tree  as  he  had  eyed  it  before. 
Mary  saw  the  weapon  raised  afresh.  There  was 
a  silence  so  intense  that  even  the  birds  in  the  tree 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  crisis. 
For  a  third  time  the  shot  rang  out  upon  the  sum- 
mer day. 

"A  hit!"  shrieked  Shelley. 

He  began  to  dance.  Mary  was  overwhelmed 
with  blank  amazement.  Shelley  paid  little  heed 
to  the  expression  upon  her  face.  He  had  begun 
an  incessant  tripping  and  cavorting  around  and 

Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
2*  £  2*       Rose  pale, — his  solemn  agony  bad  not 


Yet  faded  from  him;  Sidney,  as  he  fought  ^   9   O 

And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved  J  J 


about  the  grave.  Of  a  sudden  she  felt  her  waist 
encircled  by  his  arm.  He  was  twirling  her  in 
the  mazes  of  his  movement. 

"It  is  necessary  that  reason  should  disinterest- 
edly determine,"  Shelley  avowed,  his  hair  now  a 
tangled  mass  so  confused  that  he  could  no  longer 
run  his  fingers  through  it.  "The  passion  of  the 
virtuous  will  then  energetically  put  its  decree  into 
execution." 

He  ceased  speaking  through  lack  of  breath. 
His  arm  fell  from  her  waist.  Mary  was  so  be- 
wildered that  she  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 
The  poet  himself  took  up  his  train  of  thought 
where  he  had  left  off. 

"I  have  not  been  alone,  for  you  have  been  with 
me!"  Shelley  stretched  forth  an  arm  to  give 
solemnity  to  the  exclamation.  "I  have  been 
thinking  of  you  and  of  human  nature." 

"What  of  fate?" 

It  was  all  Mary  could  think  of  saying.  Shelley 
seemed  prepared  for  the  question. 

"And  has  not  fate  been  more  than  kind  to  me? 
Did  I  expect  her  to  lavish  upon  me  the  inexhaust- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


ible  stores  of  her  munificence?  Yet  has  she  not 
done  so?  Has  she  not  given  you  to  me?" 

"Yet,"  Mary  urged,  "my  Pa—" 

"Your  attention  to  your  father's  happiness," 
cried  Shelley,  "is  at  once  so  noble,  so  refined,  so 
delicate,  so  desirous  of  accomplishing  its  design 
that  how  could  he  fail,  if  he  knew  it,  to  give  you 
that  esteem  and  respect  besides  the  love  which  he 
does?" 

"He  is  greatly  my  superior  in  all  things," 
Mary's  voice  was  a  whisper.  Her  eyes  were  upon 
her  mother's  grave. 

"Methinks  he  is  not  your  equal,"  retorted  the 
poet.  "I  have  not  found  you  equalled." 

"And  my  duty?" 

She  spoke  so  low  that  he  barely  caught  the 
words. 

"If  virtue  depended  on  duty,  then  would 
prudence  be  virtuous,"  Shelley  cried  in  his  most 
discordant  tone,  "and  imprudence  would  be  vice. 
The  only  difference  between  the  Duke  of  Well- 
ington and  William  Godwin  would  be  that  the 
latter  had  more  cunningly  devised  the  means  of 

Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
2  2  ^1       Arose;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved: 


Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  ^  1  £ 

a  thing  reproved.  J  * 


his  own  benefit.  This  cannot  be.  Prudence  is 
only  an  auxiliary  of  virtue,  by  which  it  may  be- 
come useful." 

"If  every  one  loved,"  said  Mary,  "then  every 
one  would  be  happy." 

"This  is  impossible,"  Shelley  urged.  "But 
certain  it  is  that  the  more  that  love  the  more  are 
blest." 

Mary  placed  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  She 
was  standing  now  at  the  head  of  that  grave. 

"Shall,  then,  the  world  step  forward?"  asked 
Shelley,  regardless  of  the  circumstances  that  the 
young  lady's  back  was  turned  to  him.  "That 
world  which  wallows  in  selfishness  and  every  base 
passion,  the  consequence  of  every  absence  of  rea- 
son?" 

Mary's  face  was  in  the  handkerchief.  She 
shook  her  head  energetically. 

"Shall  that  world  give  law  to  souls,"  asked 
Shelley,  touching  her  shoulder,  "who  smile  su- 
perior to  its  palsying  influence,  who  let  the  temp- 
est of  prejudice  rave  unheeded,  happy  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  perfection  of  motive?" 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


He  was  handling  his  pistol  with  such  extreme 
carelessness  that  Mary  shuddered.  She  feared  to 
exhibit  this  dread.  Shelley  might  deem  her  lack- 
ing in  that  courage  which  could  alone  character- 
ize the  true  sister  of  his  soul.  Nevertheless,  she 
did  not  relish  the  thought  of  a  bullet  in  her  back. 
She  kept  a  wary  eye  upon  her  admirer. 

"You  are  married." 

She  had  been  wondering  how  to  bring  that  cir- 
cumstance to  his  recollection  without  a  too  rapid 
descent  from  the  sublimity  of  their  communion. 
Shelley  paused  as  he  was  about  to  fix  that  card 
with  his  eye. 

"Man  is  the  creature  of  circumstance,"  con- 
ceded the  poet  gloomily.  "These  casual  circum- 
stances custom  has  made  unto  him  a  second  na- 
ture." 

He  sank  into  an  abstraction  so  complete  that 
she  did  not  scruple  to  take  the  pistol  out  of  his 
hand.  The  act  passed  unobserved  by  the  poet. 
Mary  scrupulously  dropped  the  old  weapon  be- 
hind the  tree. 

"Might  there  not  have  been  a  prior  state  of 


236 


And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are  dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 


So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 


existence?"  asked  Shelley,  drawing  her  to  his  side. 
"Might  we  not  have  been  friends  then"?" 

"Might  not  you  and  Harriet,"  she  asked  with 
a  smile,  "have  been  friends  then?" 

"She  has  never  been  a  sister  to  my  soul." 

"Then  why  did  you  make  her  your  wife?" 

He  had  begun  to  devour  a  pear  extracted  from 
one  of  his  inexhaustible  receptacles  for  edibles. 

"At  that  period,"  began  Shelley,  a  few  drops  of 
perspiration  which  Mary  had  seen  upon  his  brow 
growing  thick  and  large,  "at  that  period  I  watched 
over  my  sister,  designing,  if  possible,  to  add  her 
to  the  list  of  the  good,  the  disinterested,  the 
free." 

"What  a  brother!"     Mary  was  in  an  ecstasy. 

"When  my  sister  was  at  school,"  resumed  Shel- 
ley, "she  contracted  an  intimacy  with  Harriet." 

He  paused  to  wipe  his  brow  upon  the  cuff  of  his 
coat.  The  pear  dropped  upon  the  grave. 

"I  desired,  therefore,"  he  began  again,  "to  in- 
vestigate Harriet's  character.  For  this  purpose  I 
called  upon  her.  I  requested  leave  to  correspond 
with  her,  designing  that  her  advancement  should 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


keep  pace  with  and  possibly  accelerate  that  of  my 
sister." 

Mary  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  bosom. 

"Noble  soul!"  she  said,  addressing  a  flight  of 
crows  above  her  head. 

"Harriet's  frank  and  ready  acceptance  of  my 
proposals  pleased  me,"  proceeded  the  poet. 
"Though  with  ideas  the  remotest  to  those  which 
led  to  the  consummation  of  our  intimacy,  I  wrote 
her  much." 

"Oh !"  cried  Mary.     "You  wrote  her  much." 

Shelley  did  not  seem  to  heed.  He  was  him- 
self attentive  to  the  sky  and  to  what  he  saw 
there. 

"The  frequency  of  Harriet's  letters,"  Shelley 
went  on,  speaking  as  much  to  himself  as  to  Mary, 
"became  greater  during  my  stay  in  Wales.  I  an- 
swered them.  They  became  interesting." 

"Did  she  write  of  political  justice?"  Mary 
put  the  question  with  perfect  gravity.  With 
equal  gravity  the  poet  replied. 

"They  contained  complaints  of  the  irrational 
conduct  of  her  relations.  The  misery  of  living 


238 


"Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry, 
"It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 


Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 


where  she  could  not  love  filled  her  missives.  Sui- 
cide was  with  her  a  favourite  theme." 

Mary  looked  intently  at  the  pear  upon  her 
mother's  grave. 

"Suicide,"  she  said  in  low  tones,  "is  with  Har- 
riet a  favourite  theme  still." 

"Her  total  uselessness  was  urged  by  Harriet 
in  defence  of  her  plan  of  suicide,"  went  on  the 
poet.  "This  I  admitted,  supposing  she  could 
prove  her  inutility." 

"Did  she  try  suicide  then?" 

"Her  letters,"  answered  Shelley,  "became  more 
and  more  gloomy." 

He  was  eating  raisins  now. 

"At  length,"  resumed  Shelley,  who  had  begun  a 
restless  pacing  about  the  grave,  "one  letter  of 
Harriet's  assumed  a  tone  of  such  despair  as  in- 
duced me  to  quit  Wales  precipitately.  I  ar- 
rived in  London." 

Mary  was  kneeling  upon  the  grave  of  her 
mother.  She  plucked  a  blade  of  grass  and  began 
to  bite  it  nervously. 

"Well?" 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


She  looked  up  into  Shelley's  face  with  a  twitch 
at  her  mouth. 

"I  arrived  in  London,"  went  on  the  poet,  mop- 
ping his  perspiring  brow  once  more.  "I  was 
shocked  at  observing  the  alteration  in  Harriet's 
looks.  Little  did  I  divine  its  cause." 

"What  was  the  cause?" 

Mary  had  risen  to  her  feet.  She  placed  a 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Harriet  had  become  violently  attached  to  me." 
Shelley  spoke  simply.  "She  feared  that  I  could 
not  return  her  attachment." 

"Did  she  say  those  things  of  her  own  accord?" 

"Prejudice,"  said  Shelley,  "made  the  confes- 
sion painful  to  her." 

"Did  you  ask  her  to  marry  you?" 

"It  was  impossible  to  avoid  being  much  af- 
fected," said  Shelley  evasively,  mopping  that  brow 
more  energetically  than  ever.  "I  promised  to 
unite  my  fate  with  hers." 

He  gulped  down  a  raisin.  She  stared  fixedly 
at  the  little  circle  of  edibles  that  had  accumulated 
around  the  spot  on  which  they  stood.  Mary  sud- 

Assume  thy  winged  throne, 
2r  ^L  O       thou  Vesper  of  our  throng !" 


Who  mourns  for  Adonais?     Oh,  come  forth,         '     *)  /\  ~\ 
Fond  wretch!  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright.          *t 

denly  left  Shelley's  side  to  reach  the  head  of  her 
mother's  grave.  She  knelt  quickly  upon  the 
granite  slab  which  recorded  the  name  of  the  im- 
mortal dead.  Her  lips  moved  in  prayer.  For  a 
long  time  no  word  was  said  by  the  poet.  He 
seemed  infected  with  the  devotional  spirit  of  the 
mood  of  his  fair  friend.  He  had  taken  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket  a  fresh  handful  of  the  raisins 
with  which  he  seemed  inexhaustibly  supplied  and 
was  now  chewing  them  moodily.  Mary  got  upon 
her  feet. 

"Shelley,"  she  said,  "I  was  praying  to  my 
mother's  spirit.  Do  you  think  me  superstitious?" 

"How  much  worthier  of  a  rational  being  is 
skepticism,"  sighed  the  wan  Shelley,  "which, 
though  it  wants  none  of  the  impassionateness 
which  some  have  characterized  as  inseparable 
from  the  superstitious,  yet  retains  judgment " 

"Judgment !" 

Mary's  tone  in  saying  the  word  was  almost 
scornful. 

"Judgment,"  repeated  Shelley.  "Judgment  is 
not  blind,  though  it  may  chance  to  see  something 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


like  perfection  in  its  object,  which  retains  its  sen- 
sibility —  bat  whose  sensibility  is  celestial  and  in- 
tellectual —  unallied  to  the  grovelling  passions  of 
Ac  earth." 

"Yet  the  world  seeks  perfection  in  prayer." 

1  feel  a  sickening  distrust,"  Shelley  declared 
vehemently,  "when  I  see  all  around  me,  all  that 
I  bad  ••••S**™!  good,  great  or  imitable  fall  into 
the  golf  of  error." 

He  stared  wildly  about  like  one  who  saw  that 
gulf  at  Us  very  feet. 

•fifcelley  !"  cried  Mary,  looking  straight  into  his 
eyes  as  she  confronted  him,  "Have  you  ever 
given  a  thought  to  a  woman's  heart?" 

He  ceased  dewing  the  raisin  in  his  mouth. 

"Hare  you  not  seen  how  my  heart  has  re- 
sponded to  your  appeal?"  she  asked  him,  her  dark 
grey  eyes  flashing.  £4Shelley,  I  have  grown  to 
love  you.  The  fault  is  yours." 

For  a  full  minute  their  eyes  did  not  cease  to 
pour  themselves  out,  the  one  pair  into  the  other. 
Mary  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  a  word  from  him. 
It  remained  unspoken. 


242       As  £«.»«»*«,  dart 


Beyood  all  worlcb,  until  itt  spacious  might  ^  J.  ~ 

Satiate  the  void  circumference:  Aea  akrink  i    ^ 


'The  fault  is  yours,"  she  proceeded.  "You 
have  made  me  love  you." 

She  looked  at  him  for  another  moment.  Then 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  He  seemed 
like  a  man  in  a  trance.  Mary  sank  upon  her 
knees  beside  the  grave  of  her  mother. 

"Ah !  my  dead  mother,"  she  cried,  lifting  her 
hand  to  the  sky.  "Wherever  you  be,  you  at  least 
understand  your  child." 

She  bowed  her  head.  He  leaped  across  the 
grave.  Mary  could  feel  the  tangled  mass  of  the 
poet's  hair  as  it  brushed  her  cheek.  In  a  trice 
he  had  put  an  arm  around  her  waist.  She  yielded 
to  its  pressure  with  a  sob.  Her  head  sank  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"My  Mary!" 

He  murmured  the  words  into  her  ear.  She 
made  no  effort  to  disengage  herself  from  his  em- 
brace. Beneath  the  tree  that  cast  its  shade  upon 
them  and  across  the  grave  of  Mary  Wollstone- 
craft  they  exchanged  the  kiss  that  ranked  them 
with  Heloise  and  Abelard,  with  Paolo  and 
Francesca,  among  love's  immortals. 


Elopement 


XIII 
THE  EVENT 

NO  ghost  was  ever  paler  than  Mary 
Godwin  as  with  noiseless  tread  she 
crept  out  from  under  a  table  in  the 
kitchen  of  her  Skinner  Street  home  at  four  o'clock 
on  the  morning  of  her  elopement. 

She  had  made  an  elaborate  pretence  of  ascend- 
ing to  her  small  bare  room.  That  was  at  her 
usual  hour  on  the  previous  night.  Evasion  of 
the  unobservant  Godwin  was  no  difficult  matter. 
Mrs.  Godwin  placed  before  her  husband  his  usual 
glass  of  hot  water.  She  retired  to  her  own  rest. 
Mary  saw  the  obese  lady  depart  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  Claire  had  gone  to  bed  an  hour  before. 
At  that  time  Mary  herself  had  gone  noisily  up- 
stairs. She  had  not  stolen  down  until  her  step- 
mother began  to  snore.  It  was  an  ancient  signal, 

Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night; 
2  44       And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee  sink 


When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  sy  A  f 

thee  to  the  brink  I  O 


audible  to  the  entire  family.  It  elicited  protest, 
as  a  rule,  only  from  tiny  William,  the  fruit  of 
Godwin's  union  with  his  second  spouse.  The 
child  was  at  the  indiscreet  age.  He  had  been 
packed  off  to  one  of  Godwin's  admirers  iri  North- 
umberland not  long  after  the  departure  of  that 
half-sister  Fanny  of  whom  Mary  was  so  jealous. 

Mary  had  concealed  in  the  kitchen  the  few  be- 
longings with  which  she  intended  to  make  her 
elopement  romantic.  These  included  no  more, 
however,  than  a  change  of  apparel.  A  silk  dress 
— a  birthday  gift  from  her  young  friend  in  Scot- 
land, Isobel  Baxter — afforded  apparel  for  the 
flight. 

Mary  dared  not  trust  her  young  eyes  to  sleep. 
She  counted  the  hours.  The  bell  in  the  old  church 
half  a  mile  away  tolled  the  slow  departure  of  the 
night.  Dawn  was  already  pink  in  a  corner  of  the 
sky  when  at  last  the  hour  of  her  fate  arrived. 

Step  by  step  Mary  stole  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
book-lined  walls  enshrining  the  treasures  of  the 
Juvenile  Library.  Dan,  the  old  porter,  had  been 
bribed  by  Shelley.  There  was  no  possibility  of 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


opposition  from  that  source.  Yet  the  heart  of 
Mary  stood  still.  A  slight  figure  emerged  from 
the  shadow  of  one  of  the  tallest  of  the  bookcases. 
It  blocked  her  path. 

"Claire!" 

Mary  spoke  in  a  whisper.  Her  father  slept  al- 
most immediately  above. 

"I  said  I  would  go  with  you."  Claire  spoke  in 
muffled  accents. 

"I  will  not  go  at  all." 

Mary  said  it  with  positiveness.  Her  extreme 
irritation  did  not  get  into  her  tone.  Claire  was 
less  discreet.  She  ventured  a  laugh. 

"Don't  come,  then,"  she  mocked.  "Shelley 
and  I  will  go  alone." 

Mary  had  retreated  half  way  to  the  kitchen. 
Claire's  threat  acted  like  magic.  Mary  gained 
the  street  door.  Claire  was  at  her  side.  To- 
gether they  passed  out. 

Neither  exchanged  a  word  as,  threading  their 
way  cautiously  around  to  Hatton  Garden,  they 
came  upon  a  post-chaise.  The  vehicle  was  en- 
shrouded in  the  morning  fog.  The  lamps  had 


246 


Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre 
Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy:  'tis  nought 


That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there  *).  A  ^ 

Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought;  i    / 


been  extinguished.  The  recumbent  figure  upon 
the  box  paid  no  heed. 

"Shelley!" 

It  was  Claire  who  greeted  the  poet.  He  re- 
clined inside,  a  volume  of  Aeschylus  in  his  hand, 
reading  by  the  light  of  a  dark  lantern.  He 
seemed  to  accept  Claire  as  part  of  the  natural 
order  of  his  elopement  with  Mary.  The  floor  of 
the  post-chaise  was  piled  high  with  classics  and 
clothes.  The  poet  placed  a  warning  finger  to  his 
lips.  The  girls  climbed  in. 

"Where  are  we  to  sit?"  asked  the  dark  young 
lady. 

Her  step-sister  made  herself  comfortable  upon 
a  set  of  Euripides  in  twelve  huge  volumes.  Claire 
grew  impatient  at  Shelley's  continued  silence. 
She  asked  another  question  now. 

"Do  we  get  to  France  tonight*?" 

The  horses  had  broken  into  a  gallop.  The 
vehicle  rattled  through  the  streets.  It  was  upon 
the  highway  to  Dover  before  Claire  had  succeeded 
in  exchanging  ten  words  with  Shelley.  Mary  and 
her  lover  had  ventured  upon  endearments  which 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


the  feminine  nature  forced  Claire  to  avoid  con- 
templating. She  gazed  out  of  the  window. 

"Change  horses !" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  man  on  the  box.  They 
had  reached  Deptford.  Shelley  leaped  to  the 
ground.  The  girls  followed  his  example.  Mary 
had  not  said  a  word  to  Claire,  not  a  word  since 
the  flight  from  London. 

"Vixen!"  whispered  Claire.  "I  don't  care  if 
you  never  speak  to  me  again." 

Mary  contemplated  the  forest  trees  upon  the 
hill  tops.  Shelley  was  leaping  excitedly  among 
the  hostlers.  The  whip  cracked.  The  poet  sig- 
nalled to  the  sister  of  his  soul.  Mary  and  Claire 
resumed  their  positions  upon  top  of  the  baggage 
piled  within. 

They  were  tearing  along  the  road  again. 
Claire  heard  the  poet  promise  the  man  on  the 
box  five  extra  guineas  if  Dover  were  reached  by 
four.  She  failed  to  extract  so  much  as  a  look 
from  Mary.  Shelley  did  not  relax  his  hold  of 
his  dear  one's  waist.  Claire  continued  her  studies 
of  the  scenery.  She  fell  asleep  at  last.  A  loud 


248 


For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey; 


And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought  *\  A  C\ 

Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay.  |  y 


cry  startled  her  into  a  half  torpor.  She  became 
aware  that  Shelley's  head  was  thrust  through  a 
window. 

"Are  they  overtaking  us?" 

It  was  Mary's  voice.  Claire,  awakened  com- 
pletely by  the  possibility  of  pursuit,  stretched 
her  young  neck.  She  was  pulled  within  by  the 
poet. 

"Don't  fall  out." 

He  spoke  shortly,  with  more  of  command  than 
she  had  supposed  him  capable  of. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The 
horses  in  front  of  the  post-chaise  dragged  the 
vehicle  through  the  Dover  streets.  They  drew 
up  in  front  of  an  inn.  Shelley  tossed  the  coach- 
man a  coin. 

"The  boat!" 

"Ready,  sir!" 

The  answer  was  roughly  spoken  by  a  man  as 
roughly  dressed.  Claire  was  completely  ex- 
hausted. Her  silk  dress  was  stained.  She  ex- 
changed a  look  with  Mary.  That  young  lady 
gazed  into  the  face  of  the  man  she  adored.  He 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


was  taciturn,  unresponsive,  knitting  his  brows 
closely. 

"When  do  we  reach  Calais?" 

He  spoke  with  an  economy  of  words  that  filled 
Claire  with  wonder. 

"Two  hours — but  we  must  start  at  once." 

The  heart  of  Claire  leaped  within  her  as  she 
caught  sight  of  the  staunch  little  vessel  moored 
at  the  wharf.  Shelley,  now  a  man  of  action,  saw 
the  girls  aboard.  He  clambered  up  the  plank 
after  them.  Mary  went  below  to  eat.  That  was 
the  one  longing  of  her  soul.  They  had  been 
supplied  all  day  with  raisins  and  with  bread. 
Shelley  had  flourished  prodigiously  upon  this  fare. 
Neither  Claire  nor  her  stepsister  had  been  able 
to  tolerate  more  than  a  nibble  of  it  occasion- 
ally. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  the  mariners  drew  the 
anchor  up.  Claire  and  Mary  had  partaken  of  a 
bowl  of  milk.  The  delicacy  was  bestowed  by 
the  captain's  wife.  She  drew  from  Claire  the 
story  of  that  day's  escapade  before  they  had  been 
out  five  hours.  The  weather  grew  so  stormy  that 

And  of  the  past  are  all  that 
2*  ^\J  cannot  pass  away. 


Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise,  /j   p*  T 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness;  0 

the  wife  of  the  captain  looked  serious.  Mary 
and  Claire  took  refuge  in  berths.  Shelley  trod 
the  deck  above. 

"I  shall  die !     I  know  I  shall  die !" 

Claire  was  vociferating  the  words.  The  eve- 
ning shadows  thickened  on  the  deep.  The  pas- 
sage had  become  perilous. 

"France!" 

The  exclamation  burst  from  the  lips  of  Shelley. 
They  stepped  ashore.  He  seemed  to  Claire  a 
newer  and  diviner  man.  He  was  no  longer  eager 
to  philosophize.  She  felt  a  certain  guilty  pride 
in  his  beauty.  She  wondered  why  he  had  eloped 
with  Mary.  She  was,  she  told  herself,  eloping 
with  Shelley. 

"France!"  echoed  Claire,  "I  love  it." 

"Is  that  because  you  speak  French  so  well?" 

Mary  had  broken  in  upon  Claire's  ecstasy. 
She  spoke  with  matronly  severity.  She  was  wont 
to  reveal  such  a  tendency  when  Claire  asserted  a 
rebellious  spirit  in  their  childhood. 

"We're  not  in  Skinner  Street  now,"  said  Claire. 
"Are  we,  Bysshe?" 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Mary  started  at  the  name.  Claire,  in  fact,  had 
never  used  it  before.  It  seemed  so  natural  now. 
She  felt  that  he  and  she  were  in  some  strange  sense 
intimate. 

"There  is  a  hotel  upon  the  hill,"  observed 
Shelley.  "Shall  we  take  rooms'?" 

Claire  clapped  her  hands.  Mary  nodded. 
The  voluble  servants  from  the  hostelry  had  al- 
ready assisted  in  disembarking  the  bits  of  baggage. 
The  French  of  which  Claire  was  so  proud  did 
admirably. 

"//  faut  payer" 

The  man  in  uniform  who  said  so,  smiled  at 
Claire. 

"Two  guineas!"  she  cried,  looking  at  Shelley. 

That  poet  produced  the  sum,  not  without  won- 
der. He  was  too  much  in  love  to  be  parsimonious. 
The  French  official  snatched  the  money.  Then 
he  lost  all  interest  in  them.  Slowly  the  servants 
ascended  the  street.  The  English  voyagers  were 
left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  cabmen.  The 
drivers  of  three  vehicles  of  villainous  appearance 
clamoured  around  them.  More  to  escape  their 

And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered 
2t  ^  2t  mountains  rise, 


And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress         ^  i*  ^ 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness,  0  J 


persistence  than  to  gratify  any  desire  for  further 
observation,  Mary  took  her  seat  in  the  neatest  of 
the  equipages.  Her  example  was  followed  by 
Claire.  The  poet  leaped  in  between  them. 

The  ride  was  long.  It  grew  weary.  Shelley 
thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window.  He  insisted 
in  his  best  French  that  they  be  taken  to  Dessein's 
hotel.  The  emaciated  little  French  cab  driver 
gesticulated.  The  head  of  Shelley  was  with- 
drawn. He  had  felt  a  pull  from  behind.  Mary 
rescued  him,  she  insisted,  from  falling  into  the 
road.  The  driver  whipped  up  his  horses.  They 
were  eager  steeds  for  several  minutes.  Thereafter 
they  resumed  a  formal  and  elaborate  walk.  This 
went  on  for  half  an  hour. 

"Tell  them  to  take  us  to  the  hotel,"  pleaded 
Mary.  "You  have  studied  French  all  your  life." 

Claire  thrust  her  head  through  the  window. 
Her  exchange  of  ideas  with  the  yellow  Frenchman 
resulted  as  Shelley's  had  done. 

They  were  ridden  through  and  about  the  envir- 
ons of  Calais  for  five  terrible  hours  before  the 
Frenchman  on  the  box  took  the  least  pity  upon 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


them.  Even  his  heart  melted  at  last.  He 
stopped  to  peer  at  his  victims  in  the  course  of 
one  of  their  innumerable  windings  and  turnings. 
The  head  of  Mary  was  pillowed  upon  the  shoul- 
der of  Shelley.  Claire  had  fainted  at  their  feet. 
The  Frenchman  was  human.  In  another  half 
hour  he  had  pulled  up  in  front  of  Dessein's  hotel. 

"Ees  dees  se  Inglese  milor  who  ordaire  se  apart- 
ment?" 

Shelley  acknowledged  himself  in  that  capacity. 
The  smart  landlord  twirled  his  waxed  moustache 
before  making  his  next  observation. 

"Zere  ees  an  Inglees  lady  who  say  here  ze  milor 
run  off  vit  der  daughtaire.  Fat  lady." 

Claire  screamed.  She  had  caught  sight  of  a 
pair  of  green  spectacles.  They  were  thrust  clear 
back  from  the  eyes  of  Claire's  own  mother,  the 
second  Mrs.  Godwin,  who  was  stepmother  to 
Mary.  The  fat  lady  in  the  green  spectacles 
pointed  a  huge  umbrella  of  faded  colour  at  Shel- 
ley. 

"Monster!"  was  her  first  exclamation.  "Give 
me  back  my  child." 

Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
2  K  A       Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 


Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead  * 

A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread. 


Mary  was  ostentatiously  ignored  by  her  step- 
mother. 

"La,  ma,"  snapped  Claire,  "how  you  talk." 

Mrs.  Godwin's  reply  took  the  form  of  physical 
violence.  She  seized  her  daughter  by  the  waist. 

"How  did  you  find  out  where  we  had  gone?" 
asked  Claire.  She  pushed  her  fleshy  parent  about 
so  deftly  as  to  knock  the  breath  out  of  Mrs.  God- 
win's body. 

The  reply  was  somewhat  delayed.  It  seemed, 
when  the  worthy  lady  could  speak,  that  she  had 
missed  the  girl's  within  two  hours  after  their  flight. 
She  was  put  upon  the  scent  by  the  absence  of 
their  silk  dresses.  To  rush  to  Shelley's  lodgings 
in  Hatton  Garden  and  to  trace  the  post-chaise  had 
been  the  work  of  three  hours.  The  fugitives  had 
gained  time.  They  lost  it  during  their  stormy 
passage. 

"Leave  these  creatures,  my  child!"  implored 
Claire's  mother. 

Despite  an  effort  of  Mary's  to  exert  gentle 
suasion  upon  Shelley,  he  thrust  himself  between 
mother  and  daughter.  His  act  had  an  overwhelm- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


ing  physical  effect  upon  Mrs.  Godwin.  She  sank 
to  her  knees. 

"Monster!" 

She  screamed  that  word.  A  crowd  of  wonder- 
ing French  was  now  before  the  hotel.  The  local 
gendarmerie  became  interested. 

"Where  is  the  office  of  the  British  consul?" 

A  uniformed  man  pointed  with  his  finger. 
Mrs.  Godwin  waddled  off.  She  vowed  vengeance 
upon  all  who  bore  the  name  of  Shelley. 

"Quick!" 

A  pair  of  steeds  had  drawn  up  around  the  corner. 
Claire  had  noted  their  arrival.  She  had  not  sus- 
pected that  they  had  anything  to  do  with  Shelley's 
plans.  The  poet  took  Mary  by  the  hand.  Claire 
followed. 

"You  are  at  liberty  to  return  with  Ma  if  you  so 
desire." 

Mary  made  this  remark  in  cutting  tones. 
Claire's  only  reply  was  to  take  her  place  in  the 
coach  on  the  other  side  of  Shelley.  He  glanced 
out.  The  steeds  had  begun  their  gallop.  The 
evening  air  was  chill.  Claire  looked  around  for 


And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which 
dull  Time 


Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand;  2,  C  7 

And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime,  J  / 


the  baggage.  An  exclamation  of  dismay  was 
checked  upon  her  lips  when  Shelley  threw  a  purse 
into  her  lap.  There  was  joy  in  his  face. 

"You're  glad  of  our  escape*?"  Claire  said. 

He  clapped  his  hands. 

"I've  an  idea!" 

"An  idea !"  repeated  Mary.  "You  mean  with 
reference  to  ma*?" 

"No — my  wife.     I'll  write  her  to  join  us." 


Elopement 


CHARACTERS  INVOLVED  IN 
SHELLEY'S  ELOPEMENT 


BIOGRAPHICAL  DATA 


William  Godwin 

Godwin  lived  to  be  past  eighty,  for  he  was  born 
at  Wisbeach,  Cambridgeshire,  England,  March  3, 
1756,  and  he  did  not  die  until  April  7,  1836.  He 
passed  away  in  London,  neglected  and  poor,  al- 
though he  had  managed  to  get  a  sinecure  under  some 
public  department  or  other.  The  "Political  Jus- 
tice" to  which  he  is  indebted  for  his  fame  as  a 
thinker  is  all  but  inaccessible  now  and  it  is  not  easy 
to  get  hold  of  his  "Caleb  Williams,"  a  novel  which 
critics  of  capacity  have  termed  great.  A  cold 
selfishness  was  at  the  foundation  of  Godwin's 
character,  according  to  George  Ticknor.  Bryan 
Waller  Procter  says  Godwin  was  ever  the  same — 
"very  cold,  very  selfish,  very  calculating."  God- 
win's conversation  gave  Robert  Dale  Owen  the 

Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned  S 

This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand  2r  O  X 


Shelley's 


impression  of  intellect  without  warmth  of  heart. 
"It  touched  on  great  principles,  but  was  measured 
and  unimpulsive."  People  who  were  intimate 
with  him  seem  to  have  agreed  that  he  was  without 
the  traits  of  character  which  inspire  admiration. 
"And  yet  this  man,"  to  revert  to  the  judgment  of 
Procter  upon  him,  'lias  in  his  study  compiled  fine 
rhetorical  sentences,  which  strangers  have  been 
ready  to  believe  flowed  warm  from  his  heart." 
This  keen  judge  of  Godwin  likens  him  to  one  of 
"those  cold  intellectual  demons  of  whom  we  read 
in  French  and  German  stories,  who  come  upon 
earth  to  do  good  to  no  one  and  harm  to  many." 
He  seems  never  to  have  known  what  love  was. 
When  on  one  occasion  Shelley  in  writing  him 
omitted  the  word  "Esquire,"  the  irritation  of 
Godwin  was  extreme.  "Godwin  as  a  man," 
wrote  Southey,  "is  very  contemptible." 

It  is  undeniable  that  "Political  Justice"  had  a 
profound  effect  upon  the  mind  of  the  generation 
to  which  it  was  addressed,  especially  upon  the 
youth  of  the  period.  Nor  must  it  be  forgotten 
that  his  "Caleb  Williams"  was  pronounced  in  its 

^  /^^        Like  flarae  transformed  to  marble ;  and  beneath, 
2.  O  2       A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 


Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  ^  \\  ^ 

of  death,  ^  ^  5 

day  probably  the  finest  novel  produced  by  a  man 
since  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  It  was  drama- 
tized in  France  and  Germany.  His  "St.  Leon" 
is  important  as  well  as  interesting  from  the  fact 
that  in  it  Godwin  traces  the  portrait  of  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  as  he  knew  her. 


II 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Shelley,  whom  it  seems  agreed  to  call  the  great- 
est lyrical  poet  in  the  English  language,  was  born 
at  Field  Place,  near  Horsham,  Sussex,  England, 
August  4,  1792,  and  he  was  drowned  off  the  Ital- 
ian coast  on  July  8,  1822.  "I  never  can  forget 
the  night,"  writes  Byron,  "that  his  poor  wife 
rushed  into  my  room  at  Pisa,  with  a  face  as  pale 
as  marble,  and  terror  impressed  on  her  brow,  de- 
manding with  all  the  tragic  impetuosity  of  grief 
and  alarm,  where  was  her  husband?"  Vain,  adds 
Byron,  were  all  their  efforts  to  calm  her.  "I  have 
seen  nothing  in  tragedy  or  on  the  stage  so  power- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


ful  or  so  affecting  as  her  appearance."  Byron 
knew  nothing  then,  he  explains,  of  the  catastro- 
phe, but  the  "vividness"  of  her  terror  proved  con- 
tagious and  he  feared  what  had  happened. 

Mary  Godwin  Shelley,  the  girl  with  whom  he 
eloped,  wrote  many  years  after,  that  the  qualities 
impressing  any  one  newly  introduced  to  Shelley 
were  "a  gentle  and  cordial  goodness"  and  "the 
eagerness  and  ardour  with  which  he  was  attached 
to  the  cause  of  human  happiness."  His  discus- 
sion of  the  felicity  attainable  by  man  was  elo- 
quent, overpowering.  He  was  a  child  in  his 
habits,  and  he  thought  it  would  be  delightful  to 
be  drowned,  that  is,  by  shipwreck  in  a  beautiful 
bay.  De  Quincey  thought  Shelley  an  angel 
touched  by  lunacy,  to  use  his  own  spirited  phrase. 

It  is  not  easy  for  us  in  the  light  of  Shelley's 
established  position,  to  realize  the  hatred  he  in- 
spired and  the  neglect  which  his  genius  from  the 
first  had  to  suffer.  The  diabolistic  interpretation 
of  Shelley  has  lasted  into  our  own  day,  and  that 
competent  critic,  Mr.  W.  J.  Dawson,  states  it 
boldly  when  he  says  of  Shelley:  "He  cursed  his 


264 


Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce 
extinguished  breath. 


Here  pause:  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet       2,  O  C 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned  * 

father,  deceived  his  friend  and  deserted  his  wife; 
yet  every  literary  critic  for  sixty  years  has  hesi- 
tated to  call  him  a  bad  man.  His  poetry  is  full 
of  a  more  subtle  and  perilous  poison  even  than 
Byron's."  This  is  the  view  that  prevailed  in 
Shelley's  own  time  among  the  public.  Perhaps 
Maurice  Thompson  has  set  the  truth  down  most 
sanely  when  he  says  that  critical  appreciation  of 
Shelley's  poetry  does  not  imply  "any  such  reckless 
eulogy  of  Shelley's  character  as  had  been  the 
recent  vogue  in  America  and  England."  We 
should  not  distinguish,  Mr.  Thompson  adds,  be- 
tween "the  wife  murderer  who  cleans  stables  or 
keeps  a  dive  and  the  wife  murderer  who  writes 
'Prometheus  Unbound'  or  'An  Ode  to  a  Skylark.'  " 
Perhaps  it  is  best  to  suggest  that  Shelley  had  the 
character  which  women  can  understand.  To 
women  he  was  sweet  and  spiritual  and  sympa- 
thetic and  sincere.  Ouida,  for  instance,  observes : 
"That  sweetness  and  spirituality  which  are  in  his 
physiognomy  characterize  the  fascination  which 
his  memory,  like  his  verse,  must  exercise  over  all 
who  can  understand  his  soul." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


The  sane  worldly  verdict  upon  Shelley's  life  is 
that  of  an  experienced  married  woman,  Mrs. 
Julian  Marshall,  who  studied  the  career  of  the 
poet  and  of  the  girl  who  ran  away  with  him. 
Shelley,  says  Mrs.  Marshall,  never  exactly  under- 
stood how  the  world  necessarily  viewed  his  rela- 
tion with  Mary  Godwin  after  the  elopement. 
"The  world  merely  saw  in  him  a  married  man 
who  had  deserted  his  wife  and  eloped  with  a  girl 
of  sixteen."  He  was  amazed  that  people  did  not 
"understand,"  that  people  did  not  honour  Mary 
for  the  high  courage  she  had  shown. 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  Charles  Brockden 
Brown,  the  American,  was  Shelley's  favourite 
novelist. 

m 
Byron 

Shelley  met  Byron  for  the  first  time  on  the 
continent  of  Europe.  Byron  was  a  social  outcast 
in  spite  of  his  wealth  and  his  position  in  the  Brit- 
ish peerage.  The  influence  of  Shelley  upon 

^  /       Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
2  O  O       Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 


Break  it  not  thou !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find  "2.  6  *7 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home,  / 

Byron  was  prodigious.  It  has  been  well  observed 
that  those  parts  of  "Childe  Harold"  written  after 
Byron  fell  under  the  influence  of  Shelley,  and 
those  parts  alone,  have  the  divine  touch. 

Shelley  and  Byron  were  introduced  to  one  an- 
other by  Trelawney,  who  has  left  an  elaborate 
account  of  the  meeting.  At  two  o'clock  on  a  cer- 
tain afternoon,  in  company  with  Shelley,  Tre- 
lawney crossed  the  Ponte  Vecchio  and  went  on  the 
Lung5  Arno  to  the  Palazzo  Lanfranchi,  the  resi- 
dence of  Lord  Byron.  They  entered  a  great  hall 
— to  give  the  story  in  Trelawney's  words — as- 
cended a  giant  staircase,  passed  through  an  equally 
large  room  over  the  hall,  and  were  shown  into  a 
smaller  apartment  which  had  books  and  a  billiard 
table  in  it.  A  bull  dog  growled.  Byron  came 
out,  presumably  from  his  bedroom.  He  limped 
but  moved  briskly.  His  quick  perception  of  the 
truth  of  Shelley's  comments  upon  his  poetry 
"transfixed"  Byron.  Shelley  from  that  hour  held 
Byron  captive. 

Peacock,  however,  says  that  Shelley  and  Byron 
first  met  in  Switzerland.  At  any  rate,  Shelley  in 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


time  lost  his  enthusiasm  for  Byron,  whose  profli- 
gacy shocked  him.  Shelley  became  anxious  not 
long  before  his  death  to  put  an  end  to  this  inti- 
macy. Nevertheless,  Shelley  was  in  two  minds 
about  Byron,  as  this  letter,  during  their  life  to- 
gether, from  the  valuable  compilation  made  by 
Mr.  Roger  Ingpen  (Scribner's)  suggests: 

We  ride  out  in  the  evening,  through  the  pine  forests 
which  divide  this  city  from  the  sea.  Our  way  of  life  is 
this,  and  I  have  accommodated  myself  to  it  without  much 
difficulty: — L.  B.  gets  up  at  two,  breakfasts;  we  talk, 
read,  etc.,  until  six ;  then  we  ride,  and  dine  at  eight ;  and 
after  dinner  sit  talking  till  four  or  five  in  the  morning. 
I  get  up  at  twelve,  and  am  now  devoting  the  interval 
between  my  rising  and  his,  to  you. 

L.  B.  is  greatly  improved  in  every  respect.  In  genius, 
in  temper,  in  moral  views,  in  health,  in  happiness.  The 
connexion  with  la  Guiccioli  has  been  an  inestimable  bene- 
fit to  him.  He  lives  in  considerable  splendour,  but 
within  his  income,  which  is  now  about  £4,000  a-year; 
£lOO  of  which  he  devotes  to  purposes  of  charity.  He  has 
had  mischievous  passions,  but  these  he  seems  to  have  sub- 
dued, and  he  is  becoming  what  he  should  be,  a  virtuous 
man.  The  interest  which  he  took  in  the  politics  of  Italy, 
and  the  actions  he  performed  in  consequence  of  it,  are 
subjects  not  fit  to  be  written,  but  are  such  as  will  delight 
and  surprise  you.  He  is  not  yet  decided  to  go  to  Switzer- 
land— a  place,  indeed,  little  fitted  for  him :  the  gossip 


268 


Of  tears  and  gall.    From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  ihadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become? 


The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ;  /%  fi  Q 

Heaven's  light  for  ever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly ;  ^/ 

and  the  cabals  of  those  anglicised  coteries  would  torment 
him,  as  they  did  before,  and  might  exasperate  him  into 
a  relapse  of  libertinism,  which  he  says  he  plunged  into 
not  from  taste,  but  despair. 


IV 


Mrs.  Mary  Wollstonecraft 
Godwin  Shelley 

The  daughter  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  by  Wil- 
liam Godwin  was  born  in  London,  August  30, 
1797,  and  died  in  London,  February  21,  1851. 
Shelley's  wealthy  father  regarded  her  with  marked 
disapproval.  In  a  letter  to  Lord  Byron,  written 
after  the  author  of  "Queen  Mab"  was  drowned, 
we  find  old  Sir  Timothy  Shelley  writing:  "Mrs. 
Shelley  was,  I  have  been  told,  the  intimate  friend 
of  my  son  in  the  lifetime  of  his  first  wife  and  to 
the  time  of  her  death,  and  in  no  small  degree,  as 
I  suspect,  estranged  my  son's  mind  from  his  fam- 
ily, and  all  his  first  duties  in  life."  To  this  may 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


be  added  the  estimate  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft 
Godwin  Shelley  formed  by  Trelawney,  who  knew 
her  very  well  both  before  and  after  the  poet's 
tragic  end — he  was  really  murdered. 

Mrs.  Shelley  was  of  a  soft,  lymphatic  temperament, 
the  exact  opposite  to  Shelley  in  everything;  she  was 
moping  and  miserable  when  alone,  and  yearning  for  so- 
ciety. Her  capacity  can  be  judged  by  the  novels  she 
wrote  after  Shelley's  death,  more  than  ordinarily  com- 
monplace and  conventional.  Whilst  overshadowed  by 
Shelley's  greatness  her  faculties  expanded ;  but  when  she 
had  lost  him  they  shrank  into  their  natural  littleness. 
We  never  know  the  value  of  anything  till  we  have  lost 
it,  and  can't  replace  it.  The  memory  of  how  often  she 
had  irritated  and  vexed  him  tormented  her  after-exist- 
ence, and  she  endeavoured  by  rhapsodies  of  panegyric  to 
compensate  for  the  past.  But  Dr.  Johnson  says 
"  Lapidary  inscriptions  must  not  be  judged  literally." 
They  are  influenced  by  our  own  shortcomings  to  the  ob- 
ject when  living.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  minds 
more  opposite  than  Shelley's  and  his  wife's ;  but  the  tragi- 
cal end  of  his  first  wife  was  ever  present  in  his  mind, 
and  he  was  prepared  to  endure  the  utmost  malice  of 
fortune. 

Mrs.  Shelley  seldom  omitted  to  avail  herself  of  any 
opportunities  (which  were  rare)  to  attend  Church  serv- 
ice, partly  to  show  that  she  did  not  participate  in  her 
husband's  views  of  atheism;  and  she  was  present  when 
Dr.  Nott  preached  in  a  private  room  in  the  basement 


270 


Life  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 


Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die,  2  T  I 

If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek !         / 

story  of  the  house  in  Pisa  she  and  Shelley  were  living  in. 
Godwin  her  father  had  no  means  of  providing  for  her; 
and  he  educated  her  for  a  teacher  or  governess  in  a  per- 
fectly orthodox  manner,  which  he  knew  was  indispens- 
able; and  carefully  withheld  his  own  particular  views 
and  her  mother's,  as  he  knew  they  would  be  a  bar  to  her 
success.  Mrs.  Shelley  was  a  firm  believer,  and  had  little 
or  no  sympathy  with  any  of  her  husband's  theories ;  she 
could  not  but  admire  the  great  capacity  and  learning  of 
her  husband,  but  she  had  no  faith  in  his  views. 


"Claire" 

Mary  Jane  Clairmont,  who  perhaps  was  given 
the  name  of  Clara  in  baptism,  was  born  April  27, 
1798,  in  London  (?)  and  died  at  Florence,  Italy, 
March  19,  1879.  She  has  her  place  in  history 
as  the  mother  of  Allegra,  who  is  said  to  have  been 
the  daughter  of  Byron,  although  Shelley  com- 
plained to  Claire  that  Byron  made  the  "basest 
insinuations"  regarding  the  true  paternity  of  Al- 
legra. Claire  is  accused  by  the  biographers  of 
Shelley  of  forcing  herself  upon  Byron.  "Through 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


Byron's  spite,"  writes  Mr.  Roger  Ingpen,  "Claire's 
name  became  linked  with  Shelley's  in  the  vile 
Hoppner  scandal."  Mr.  Ingpen  tells  us  that 
Claire  Clairmont  did  not  get  on  well  with  her 
half  sister  Mary  after  the  establishment  of  the 
Shelley  household  and  she  thereafter  became  a 
governess  in  the  home  of  an  Italian  professor  of 
eminence.  After  Shelley  was  drowned,  Claire 
continued  to  live  on  the  continent  of  Europe  and 
was,  Mr.  Ingpen  adds,  a  governess  in  Russia. 
Shelley  left  her  a  legacy  in  his  will. 

After  that  we  hear  of  Claire  (who  never  mar- 
ried) as  a  pious  Roman  Catholic  lady  with  a 
horror  of  irregular  unions  of  the  kind  exemplified 
in  the  careers  of  Shelley  and  Byron.  Allegra, 
the  child  of  Claire,  over  whom  she  had  a  fierce 
quarrel  with  Byron,  died  at  the  age  of  five. 

Claire  was  said,  upon  the  authority  of  a  maid 
in  the  service  of  Mary  Godwin,  to  have  borne  a 
child  to  Shelley  which  was  subsequently  sent  to  a 
foundling  asylum.  In  addition  it  was  stated  that 
Claire  and  Shelley  treated  Mary  in  the  "most 
shameful  manner"  when  they  were  all  living  to- 

Follow  where  all  is  fled ! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
2»  J  2r        Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words  are  weak 


The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  *  *7  O 

to  speak.  /  3 


gether  in  Italy.     This  constitutes  the  "Hoppner 
scandal,"  concerning  which  Shelley  wrote  Mary: 

Lord  Byron  has  also  told  me  of  a  circumstance  that 
shocks  me  exceedingly;  because  it  exhibits  a  degree  of 
desperate  and  wicked  malice  for  which  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
account.  When  I  hear  such  things  my  patience  and  my 
philosophy  are  put  to  a  severe  proof,  whilst  I  refrain 
from  seeking  out  some  obscure  hiding-place,  where  the 
countenance  of  man  may  never  meet  me  more.  It  seems 
that  Elise,  actuated  either  by  some  inconceivable  malice 
for  our  dismissing  her,  or  bribed  by  my  enemies,  or  mak- 
ing common  cause  with  her  infamous  husband,  has  per- 
suaded the  Hoppners  of  a  story  so  monstrous  and  in- 
credible that  they  must  have  been  prone  to  believe  any 
evil  to  have  believed  such  assertions  upon  such  evidence. 
Mr.  Hoppner  wrote  to  Lord  Byron  to  state  this  story  as 
the  reason  why  he  declined  any  further  communications 
with  us,  and  why  he  advised  him  to  do  the  same. 

VI 

Harriet  Shelley 

Harriet,  first  wife  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  was 
born  in  1795.  She  drowned  herself  in  the  Ser- 
pentine in  1816.  Mr.  Ingpen,  who  has  made  an 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


exhaustive  investigation  of  the  Shelley  archives, 
thinks  Harriet  has  been  slandered.  Suggestions, 
he  notes,  have  been  made  that  she  was  faithless  to 
Shelley  before  their  separation  and  that  she  was 
in  love  with  a  Major.  Apparently,  says  Mr. 
Ingpen,  there  is  nothing  to  support  this  idea.  On 
the  contrary,  he  says,  the  evidence  is  entirely  in 
her  favour.  Peacock,  Hogg  and  Hookham,  all  of 
whom  knew  her  intimately,  believed  her  to  be 
perfectly  innocent  and  Thornton  Hunt  and  Tre- 
lawney  shared  the  same  belief.  On  the  other 
hand  Shelley  was  convinced  of  Harriet's  guilt. 


VII 


Hogg 


Thomas  Jefferson  Hogg,  intimate  friend  of 
Shelley  at  Oxford  and  later,  was  born  at  Norton, 
Durham,  England,  May  24,  1792,  and  died  near 
London,  November  6,  1862.  He  wrote  a  very 
remarkable  life  of  Shelley  which  gave  great  of- 
fence to  Shelley's  surviving  relatives.  Neverthe- 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  ray  Heart? 
2r  I  A       Thy  hopes  are  gone  before:  from  all  things  here 


They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart ; 
A  light  is  passed  from  the  revolving  year, 


less,  it  was  the  best  portrait  of  Shelley  ever 
painted,  according  to  Trelawney,  who  has  also  left 
us  his  impressions  of  the  poet.  I  give  Dowden's 
estimate  of  Hogg : 

Thomas  Jefferson  Hogg,  son  of  a  gentleman  of  old 
family  and  high  Tory  politics,  residing  at  Stockton-on- 
Tees,  had  entered  University  College  in  the  early  part  of 
the  year  1810,  a  short  time  before  Shelley.  .  .  .  There 
was  little  resemblance  between  the  friends.  Hogg  had 
intellectual  powers  of  no  common  order,  and  all  through 
his  life  was  an  ardent  lover  of  literature;  but  he  cared 
little  or  nothing  for  doctrines  and  abstract  principles 
such  as  formed  the  very  food  on  which  the  revolutionary 
intellect  of  Shelley  fed ;  and  his  interest  in  literature  was 
that  of  a  man  of  the  world,  who  finds  in  poetry  a  refuge 
from  the  tedium  of  common  life.  For  the  foibles  and 
follies  and  false  enthusiasms  of  individuals  or  coteries 
Hogg  had  a  keen  eye  and  a  mocking  tongue ;  yet  he  tol- 
erated all  novelties  of  opinion  or  of  practice  as  bright 
oases  in  the  desert  of  common  sense.  Above  all  things 
he  hated  a  dullard  and  a  bore.  For  his  own  part  he  was 
well  pleased  to  enjoy  the  world,  to  accept  things  as  they 
are,  to  toil  in  the  appointed  ways  for  the  allotted  re- 
wards, to  take  life  pleasantly  and  have  his  laugh  and 
his  jest  at  the  human  comedy;  and  thus  he  was  pro- 
tected by  a  fine  non-conducting  web  of  intellectuality 
and  of  worldliness  from  all  those  influences  which  startle 
and  waylay  the  soul  of  the  poet,  the  lover,  the  saint,  and 
the  hero.  But  his  perception  was  clear  that  it  is  they, 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


and  they  alone,  who  make  life  something  better  than  a 
dull  round  of  commonplace  from  which  one  might  at 
any  moment  sink  to  apathy  or  disgust.  In  Shelley  there 
stood  real  and  living  before  him  "  the  divine  poet  " —  all 
that  he  himself  could  never  be,  and  could  not  even  choose 
to  be.  For  "the  divine  poet"  Hogg's  admiration  was 
genuine  and  vivid ;  but  with  his  admiration  for  the  poet 
there  mingled  a  man  of  the  world's  sense  of  superiority 
to  the  immortal  child. 

Hogg  finally  married  the  beautiful  widow  Jane 
Williams  who,  with  her  first  husband,  had  shared 
the  house  in  which  Shelley  lived  with  Mary  at 
Pisa.  Jane  is  the  lady  to  whom  Shelley  ad- 
dressed so  many  exquisite  stanzas,  the  lady  in 
whose  society  he  spent  such  happy  hours,  to  whom 
he  gave  a  guitar,  whom  he  once  nearly  drowned, 
who  lives  for  ever  in  these  lines  of  his : 

TO  JANE:    "  THE  KEEN  STARS  WERE 
TWINKLING" 

i 

The  keen  stars  were  twinkling, 
And  the  fair  moon  was  rising  among  them, 

Dear  Jane ! 

The  guitar  was  tinkling, 
But  the  notes  were  not  sweet  till  you  sung  them 
Again. 


276 


And  man,  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 


The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  near ;         /}  FJ  ^ 
'Tis  Adonais  calls!  oh,  hasten  thither,  /    / 


As  the  moon's  soft  splendour 
O'er  the  faint  cold  starlight  of  heaven 

Is  thrown, 

So  your  voice  most  tender 
To  the  strings  without  soul  had  them  given 
Its  own. 

in 

The  stars  will  awaken, 
Though  the  moon  sleep  a  full  hour  later, 

Tonight ; 

No  leaf  will  be  shaken 
Whilst  the  dews  of  your  melody  scatter 
Delight. 

IV 

Though  the  sound  overpowers, 
Sing  again,  with  your  dear  voice  revealing 

A  tone 

Of  some  world  far  from  ours, 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 

VIII 

Fanny  Imlay 

Fanny  Imlay,  who  fell  in  love  with  Shelley, 
was  the  daughter  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  by  Gil- 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


bert  Imlay,  an  American.  She  was  bora  in  Paris 
in  1794  and  she  committed  suicide  at  Swansea, 
Wales,  October  9,  1816,  within  a  few  weeks  of 
the  day  on  which  Shelley's  first  wife,  Harriet, 
drowned  herself  in  the  Serpentine.  Harriet, 
while  still  living  with  Shelley,  wrote  a  pressing 
invitation  to  Fanny  to  come  for  a  visit  to  them 
both. 

The  second  Mrs.  Godwin  always  insisted  that 
Fanny  Imlay  had  fallen  in  love  with  Shelley,  and 
Godwin  himself,  in  his  old  age,  proclaimed  the 
same  theory.  Shelley's  own  view  is  preserved  in 
these  lines  on  Fanny : 

Her  voice  did  quiver  as  we  parted, 

Yet  knew  I  not  that  heart  was  broken 
From  which  it  came,  and  I  departed 
Heeding  not  the  words  then  spoken. 
Misery — O  Misery, 
This  world  is  all  too  wide  for  thee. 

Those  who  search  the  verses  of  Shelley  with 
insight  and  industry,  will  detect  more  than  one 
veiled  allusion  to  Fanny  Imlay  or  Fanny  Godwin, 
as  she  was  called. 


278 


No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death 
can  join  together. 


That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe,  ""T  Tfl 

That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move,  /   / 


Gilbert  Imlay,  father  of  poor  Fanny,  was  a  sort 
of  military  adventurer  from  the  United  States. 
He  rejoiced  in  the  title  of  Captain,  acquired,  it 
has  been  vaguely  conjectured,  in  our  revolution- 
ary war.  As  Mary  had  pretensions  to  beauty, 
this  Imlay  had  pretensions  to  literature.  He  had 
given  a  three-volume  novel  to  the  world.  The 
world  took  no  notice.  He  had  described  in  many 
vivid  published  letters  the  western  wilds  of  the 
newly  established  American  republic.  His  knowl- 
edge of  the  region  was  derived,  it  seems,  from 
personal  observation  in  the  course  of  the  timber 
and  land  speculations  to  which  he  owed  his  supply 
of  funds.  He  and  Mary  ran  across  one  another 
in  the  American  colony  then  subsisting  so  precari- 
ously in  the  Paris  of  the  lantern  and  the  rights  of 
man.  Of  Imlay's  past,  Mary  knew  absolutely 
nothing  definite.  Perhaps  he  had  a  wife  in  Amer- 
ica. It  is  possible  that  he  had  quitted  his  native 
land  for  reasons  anything  but  creditable  to  him- 
self. Such  is  the  mystery  on  the  subject  of  his 
antecedents  and  such  is  the  uncertainty  regarding 
his  career  apart  from  his  meretricious  relations 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


with  the  vindicator  of  the  rights  of  woman  that 
one  hardly  knows  whether  to  deem  him  a  rascal, 
living  under  an  assumed  name,  or  a  man  of  prin- 
ciple. He  was  living  at  this  juncture  upon  the 
profits  of  timber  operations  in  the  Scandinavian 
peninsula.  He  had  been  heard  to  talk  about 
writing  a  book  and  he  appears  to  have  held  the- 
ories of  the  rights  of  man. 

It  is  easy  to  see  how  a  fellow  of  this  sort  could 
attract  the  volatile  fancy  of  Mary  Wollstone- 
craft.  To  begin  with,  her  finances  were  in  dis- 
order. She  had  no  source  of  regular  income. 
His  funds  were  just  now  ample.  In  addition  to 
her  prettiness  of  physique  and  of  manner,  Mary 
was  a  brilliant  talker.  Coleridge,  who  fully  real- 
ized her  imbecility  as  a  maker  of  books,  and  who 
expressed  to  Hazlitt  his  contempt  of  her  literary 
powers,  acknowledged  that  she  shone  in  conversa- 
tion. In  spite  of  her  masculine  attitude  as  a  vin- 
dicator of  the  rights  of  woman,  Mary  was  most 
feminine  in  social  life.  She  felt  hurt  when  a 
man  did  not  stoop  to  pick  up  the  fan  or  hand- 
kerchief she  dropped.  She  longed  for  the  pretty 

Q  That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 

2  O  O       Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 


Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove  ^  Q  T 

By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 

attentions  paid  by  fops  to  dolls  of  fashion.  She 
was  flirtatious.  She  was  chatty.  She  talked 
about  the  future  of  woman  in  a  bold  yet  delight- 
ful way.  She  made  no  concealment  of  her  theory 
that  with  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  hundred,  "a 
very  sufficient  dash  of  folly  is  necessary  to  render 
a  woman  piquante."  Imlay,  on  his  side,  was 
deferential  and  gallant.  He  had  the  charm — so 
irresistible  in  many  a  woman's  eyes— of  seeming 
"literary." 

The  first  advances  were  undoubtedly  made  by 
Mary.  That  was  characteristic  of  her  in  the  vari- 
ous affairs  through  which  she  compromised  herself 
with  men.  Godwin,  with  whom  her  relations, 
prior  to  her  marriage  with  that  dealer  in  political 
justice,  were  long  notorious,  contributes  unwit- 
tingly to  the  evidence  against  her  on  this  point. 
"The  partiality  we  conceived  for  each  other,"  he 
says  in  his  memoir  of  the  woman  who  had  been 
his  mistress  before  she  became  his  wife,  "was  in 
that  mode  which  I  have  always  considered  as  the 
purest  and  most  refined  style  of  love.  It  grew 
with  equal  advances  in  the  mind  of  each.  It 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


would  have  been  impossible  for  the  most  minute 
observer  to  have  said  who  was  before  and  who 
was  after.  One  sex  did  not  take  the  priority  which 
long  established  custom  has  awarded  it,  nor  the 
other  overstep  that  delicacy  which  is  so  severely 
imposed.  I  am  not  conscious  that  either  party 
can  assume  to  have  been  the  agent  or  the  patient, 
the  toil  spreader  or  the  prey,  in  the  affair."  God- 
win's experience  and  Imlay's  experience,  had  the 
American  been  as  elaborate  a  diarist  as  the  Eng- 
lishman, would  in  all  likelihood  be  found  to  tally. 
The  affair  with  Imlay,  like  the  affair  with  God- 
win, but  unlike  the  affair  with  Fuseli,  "grew  with 
equal  advances."  Mary,  taught  discretion  by  the 
shocks  to  her  vanity  in  the  pursuit  of  Fuseli,  did 
not  throw  herself  at  the  head  of  the  American 
Captain  with  the  recklessness  she  displayed  in  try- 
ing to  break  up  the  Swiss  artist's  home.  Imlay's 
wife,  if  he  had  one  anywhere,  was  not  on  the 
ground  to  defend  the  sanctity  of  her  hearth  upon 
the  precedent  established  by  Mrs.  Fuseli. 

From  Mary's  point  of  view,  any  wife  of  Im- 
lay's need  not  have  entered  into  the  calculation. 

O  Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 

2  O  2r       The  fire  for  which  all  thirst;  now  beams  on  me, 


Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold 
mortality. 


283 


"Her  view,"  to  quote  the  words  of  Mary's  most 
sympathetic  interpreter,  C.  Kegan  Paul,  "was  that 
a  common  affection  was  marriage  and  that  the 
marriage  tie  should  not  bind  after  the  death  of 
love,  if  love  should  die."  As  for  a  marriage  cere- 
mony to  set  the  seal  upon  her  relations  with  Im- 
lay,  that  was,  from  Mary's  point  of  view  again, 
superfluous.  The  one  thing  essential  was  love. 
Marriage,  the  institution  as  civilization  knows  it, 
was  outworn.  Her  state  of  mind  was  at  the  op- 
posite pole  from  that  of  Juliet  who,  in  bidding 
Romeo  good  night  as  he  loitered  under  her  bal- 
cony, could  say  that  if  his  bent  of  love  was 
honorable,  his  purpose  marriage,  they  twain  could 
find  some  one  to  "perform  the  rite  that  makes  of 
lovers  man  and  wife."  Juliet  lived  long  before 
the  vindication  of  the  rights  of  woman.  She 
could  not  have  realized  that  "a  common  affection 
was  marriage."  Mary  plagued  her  Romeo  with 
no  such  considerations  as  Shakespeare's  heroine 
deemed  vital.  Imlay  could  scarcely  imagine  with 
what  pleasure  his  Mary  anticipated  the  day  when 
they  were  to  begin  "almost  to  live  together." 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


She  was  confident  that  her  heart  had  found  peace 
in  his  bosom.  She  implored  him  to  cherish  her 
with  that  "dignified  tenderness"  she  found  only  in 
him.  True,  Mary  had  a  hot  temper.  Imlay 
learned  that  to  his  cost  early  in  the  affair.  The 
trait  disconcerted  him.  But  his  "own  dear  girl" 
promised  to  "keep  under  a  quickness  of  feeling3' 
that  had  often  given  him  pain.  She  had  been 
feeling  very  miserable,  she  wrote  him.  Like  poor 
Missis  Gummidge,  who  was  always  thinking  of 
"the  old  un,"  Mary,  doubtless,  had  remembered 
Fuseli  now  and  then.  That,  at  any  rate,  is  a 
legitimate  inference  from  her  epistolary  protesta- 
tion to  Imlay  that  her  heart,  "now  trembling  into 
peace,"  was  agitated  by  every  emotion  that  awak- 
ened the  remembrance  of  old  griefs.  Meanwhile, 
let  him  write  soon  to  his  own  girl — he  might  add 
"fear"  if  he  pleased. 

As  winter  drew  nigh,  it  became  apparent  that 
Mary  was  to  become  a  mother.  Her  lover  being 
called  away  from  Paris  more  and  more  frequently 
by  those  timber  operations  in  the  Scandinavian 
peninsula  upon  which  his  fortunes  depended, 


284 


The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven, 


Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng       2,  R  T 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ;  J 

Mary  deluged  him  with  her  characteristic  effu- 
sions. She  wanted  her  whole  sex,  she  wrote  him, 
"to  become  wiser,"  with  never  a  suspicion  that  she 
might  be  a  little  wiser  herself.  She  cherished  a 
plan  to  settle  with  Imlay  in  the  country.  But  her 
mind  was  ill  at  ease.  Her  theoretical  Eden,  from 
which  the  marriage  ceremony  was  practically 
eliminated,  was  haunted  already  by  a  serpent  of 
distrust.  She  soothed  herself  by  pouring  out  her 
heart  on  paper  to  him.  He  excused  his  absences 
upon  the  plea  of  business.  She  admitted  the 
validity  of  the  explanation.  She  prayed  to  the 
divine  being. 

Imlay  had  already  revealed  by  his  attitude  how 
subject  he  was  to  that  eternal  law  of  the  mascu- 
line nature  which  makes  it  impossible  for  any  man 
to  respect  permanently  the  woman  of  whose  virtue 
he  cherishes  the  slightest  suspicion.  To  him  she 
was  a  mistress,  not  a  wife.  Such  is  the  man's 
point  of  view  always  in  these  affairs,  disguise  it 
as  he  may.  Imlay's  temper  seems  to  have  been 
as  violent  as  was  Mary's.  She  flew  perpetually 
into  a  passion.  She  resented  even  the  appearance 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


of  a  slight,  any  manifestation  of  indifference  to 
herself.  Not  being  a  wife,  she  could  never  be 
sure  of  her  position.  "When  I  am  hurt  by  the 
person  most  dear  to  me,"  she  explained  in  the 
course  of  one  of  her  innumerable  epistles,  "I  must 
let  out  a  whole  torrent  of  emotions."  Too  true. 
She  did  it  on  paper  in  Paris,  Imlay  having  gone 
to  Havre,  whence  he  seems  to  have  delayed  his 
return  unconscionably.  Mary  meanwhile  was 
dreaming  of  their  future  felicity  in  their  own 
home  when  they  had  six  children.  Little  did  she 
suspect,  seemingly,  that  the  foundation  of  a  home, 
the  faith  of  a  husband  in  the  purity  of  the  mother 
of  his  children,  had  been  destroyed  when  she  per- 
mitted herself  to  become  Imlay's  mistress.  The 
love  that  comes  after  marriage — the  supreme  love 
of  all — could  not  exist  where  there  was  no  mar- 
riage. The  illegitimate  daughter  of  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft  came  into  the  world  about  a  year  after 
the  mother  had  begun  to  live  openly  with  Imlay. 
The  child  received  the  name  of  Fanny'  in  memory 
of  a  dear  friend  to  whose  husband  Mary  had  once 
proved  a  source  of  infinite  domestic  discord.  The 

^  O  /^       The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
2  O  O       I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 


Whilst,  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  sy  Q  rj 

of  Heaven,  A  "  / 

infant  Fanny  was  nursed  by  its  own  mother. 
"My  lying-in  scarcely  deserved  the  name,"  wrote 
Mary  to  one  of  her  sisters  in  England.  "I  only 
rested  through  persuasion  in  bed  one  day,  and  was 
out  walking  on  the  eighth."  While  the  newly 
born  little  Fanny  was  yet  the  tenderest  of  infants, 
less  than  a  few  months  old,  she  caught  the  small 
pox.  Mary  took  devoted  care  of  the  patient  her- 
self, putting  the  infant  twice  a  day  into  a  warm 
bath.  It  recovered  completely,  although  the 
child's  beauty  was  destroyed.  Mary  describes 
her  little  Fanny  as  wonderfully  intelligent.  "I 
am  sure,"  she  adds,  in  a  letter  to  her  sister,  "she 
has  her  father's  quick  temper  and  feelings." 
What  Mary  wanted  her  sisters  at  home  to  think 
of  Imlay  is  revealed  in  yet  another  of  the  epistles 
upon  which  she  expended  so  much  of  her  leisure. 
"I  am  safe,"  she  said,  after  dwelling  in  France 
over  a  year,  "through  the  protection  of  an  Ameri- 
can, a  most  worthy  man,  who  joins  to  uncommon 
tenderness  of  heart  and  quickness  of  feeling  a 
soundness  of  understanding  and  reasonableness  of 
temper  rarely  to  be  met  with.  Having  also  been 


Elopement 


Shelley's 


brought  up  in  the  interior  parts  of  America,  he  is 
a  most  natural,  unaffected  creature."  Not  a 
word  did  Mary  say  on  the  subject  of  marriage. 
The  only  hint  she  conveyed,  however,  of  the  real 
nature  of  her  relations  with  Imlay  took  the  form 
of  the  avowal :  "I  am  with  him  much  now." 

She  was  not  with  him  much  longer.  Imlay 
had  wearied  of  his  "girl."  His  long  absences  left 
her  with  no  other  resource  than  playing  with  little 
Fanny,  whose  fate  was  to  be  so  dreadful.  "Be- 
sides looking  at  me,  there  are  three  or  four  other 
things  which  delight  her,"  wrote  Mary  to  the 
child's  father,  "to  ride  in  a  coach,  to  look  at  a 
scarlet  waistcoat  and  hear  loud  music." 


Q  Q       The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
2  O  O       Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


University  of  California 
RN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


SOUTHERN  REGI 
405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 
Return  this  material  to  the  library 
from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A     000  021  092     2 


